


You Who Swallowed a Falling Star

by NineMagicks



Series: Merry-go-round of Life [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Bad Poetry, Baz is Howl, Cheese, Curses, Dogs, Fire, Goats, Lamb is the Witch of the Waste, M/M, Magic, POV Simon Snow, Shepard is from Omaha, Simon is having a bad day, Stars, Strangers to Lovers, Swearing, Vampires, War Themes, Wizards, wheelbarrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 109,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: They say the wizard Pitch traverses the land in his moving castle, looking for hearts to steal and devour. Simon's too busy to worry about such things - he's got a farm to run, cheese to sell, and countless wonky goat faces to stitch onto bags. It'd be a bloody nightmare if something were to come along and disrupt his regimented life of cheese, eat, goat, sleep, repeat...say, for example, a wraith who behaves alotlike a scorned vampire, a plucky apprentice, a fire demon, a heedless war, or an unshakeable curse. Yes, it'd be justdreadfulif that were to happen. (But if it didn't, there would be no plot, so. Sorry, Simon.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Merry-go-round of Life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100321
Comments: 440
Kudos: 776





	1. You're a natural

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pjpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjpg/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [You Who Swallowed a Falling Star |Traducción|](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153264) by [thegirlontheblackhoodie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlontheblackhoodie/pseuds/thegirlontheblackhoodie)



> This fic is a Howl's Moving Castle/Snowbaz AU for pjpg who drew [this beautiful fanart of Baz and Simon](https://parijpg.tumblr.com/post/190589384088/a-crossover-no-one-asked-for-lol-ninemagicks), after we mentioned Baz's Howl vibes. The title is a quote from the film, and the fic's beginning will include adapted scenes from the Studio Ghibli animation, with other events and characters from _Carry On_ and _Wayward Son_ ~seamlessly blending into~ future chapters. If you haven't already, please consider checking out Diana Wynne Jones's gorgeous novel _Howl's Moving Castle_ , and the beautiful animated Ghibli adaptation. :) Credit goes to Studio Ghibli and Diana Wynne Jones for various plot points, settings, and for the character of Calcifer. Credit to Rainbow Rowell for her beautiful characters from the _Simon Snow_ series, who appear in this fic. Hope you like it, and thank you for reading!
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/50020369598/in/album-72157713947716758/)  
> [Cover art](https://parijpg.tumblr.com/post/615148229536972800/two-of-my-most-favorite-things-ghibli-and-carry) by [pjpg](http://parijpg.tumblr.com). Please visit the artist's blog for more amazing work. :)

It's been a long day.

The days are _always_ long.

I slouch over the workbench, pricking my thumb with a needle and swearing blue murder at the ceiling. One of the guys in the back hears me, leaning in the doorway to further add to my misery.

“Snow. You're still working?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, sucking my thumb. I snip at a dangling bit of cotton and shove the scissors away in a drawer. “Finishing now, though.” If I have to stitch one more wonky goat face onto one more bloody canvas bag, I'll go spare. (Also, I'm running out of uninjured fingers.)

“I'd invite you out but you smell like goat,” Gareth says, grinning.

“We all smell like goat,” I mutter darkly. “We work on a fucking goat farm.”

He shrugs. “Me and the lads are going into town for a drink. Lock up, will you? And watch out for the wizard—his castle's been sighted in the hills above the city. Not that _you've_ got much to worry about.” Gareth smirks, drumming his fingers against the door frame. “He definitely won't go for lads who smell like goats. Still, cross your heart and hope not to die, eh?”

He doesn't wait for my reply. I hear him laughing with the others as they swing through the front door of the shop, out into the late afternoon and the freedom it brings.

Wizards. Castles. Goats. Fuck off, Gareth.

I'll be stuck in the shop for hours, yet. Bagging everything up for tomorrow, settling the goats in and turning down the lamps. I'm the only one of the workers who lives here—there's a room above the shop and I just sort of moved in, after Ebb passed away. The others never want to stick around, after closing. They clock in of a morning, get stuck into all the culturing, draining and mould-ripening (the cheese stuff), then they leave at five.

I'm not much good at cheesemaking. Gareth doesn’t trust me with the practical stuff—I'm the one who looks after the goats and gets everything ready for sale. I'm also the one left to run the shop, even though I apparently smell bad. (Which might account for the drop off in customers lately. What do people _expect_ a farm to smell like?) Before she died, Ebb managed to build a good reputation for this place, and a few people even come way out here from the city, just to get their hands on her cheese.

 _Our_ cheese. _The_ cheese. The goats' cheese. Do goats eat cheese? I don't know, it's hard sometimes, remembering that she's gone. The shop doesn't feel right without her, and it's been years since she last stood at the bottom of the stairs, blaring at me to _get up out of bed and see to the kids, yer sorry lump!_

I sigh, clearing the workbench for the morning, piling up finished cloth bags embroidered with our logo— _Ebb's Fromagerie_ and a cross-eyed goat, which I'm not getting any better at stitching, even though I've been doing it every day for years now—and clean cheesecloths.

On days like this, I miss Penelope.

She used to work here before she got a job at a bakery in town. She used to do all the embroidery, and yeah, bag standards were higher back then. She's always busy now—way too busy to take the bus out this far just to visit a mob of goats. (And me, I suppose.) Sometimes, on hard days, she'd lock the front door and we'd sit in the empty shop together, telling jokes and stitching rude words inside random bags, which we'd then pass off on snobby customers. I'm glad she's got more going on now—she loves it at the bakery because she gets to be bossy around pastry all day, and who wouldn't love that?—but I still miss her sometimes.

I wonder if she'd mind if I dropped in today? It's been weeks since I was last in the city. I could close the shop a bit earlier than usual, check on the goats, then take the bus down the hill. That'd be alright, wouldn't it? Just this once. Just for a change of scenery.

I'm out the back door, locking the barn, and traipsing through the yard before I can question it much further. I pull a hat down off a peg on the wall, just to complete the goat-farmer look, and step out onto the muddy path that'll take me to the main road. I'm wearing one of Ebb's shirts today—green and loose and patched at the elbows—and I hug it around me as the wind picks up, nearly knocking the hat off my head.

At the bottom of the hill, I can see the city as it begins to sprawl ever outwards. Smoke and chimneys and turrets and fog—it's like a bleary dream of a place, not real at all until you get there and realise you're lost in it. When Penny first moved she said she hated it— _“It's too noisy, I want to go back to the farm!”—_ but after a few weeks, I think she really started to enjoy how alive it is.

Part of me thinks I should have more ambition in life, but really, what's the point? Somebody has to do the small things. Somebody has to be in the background, and I'm not one for noise and crowds. I'm happiest with the goats. (They don't judge me or answer back much—what's not to like?)

As I reach the street, a loud noise drowns out everything else—I look up and see them flying overhead, in perfect formation as they head to the city.

Warplanes. Six of them.

They're everywhere these days. I couldn't say for certain what the war is about, but we all know it's happening—every day, more and more soldiers arrive in the city, as if they're appearing out of the cracks in the pavement. No one who lives up on the hill's been conscripted yet, but at this rate it might go that way. It's probably not the best idea for me to head there right now, with all that going on, but I've already stepped up onto the trolley bus and paid my fare.

I need to see Penny for a bit. Buy a cake, see something different. Then I'll be fine, up on the farm. Me and the goats, kicking back with a bit of embroidery.

Life doesn't have to be some big thing. It's alright that I wasn't chosen for anything.

Life can just be this.

* * *

As soon as we reach the edge of town, the bus stops moving. I lean out of a window, royally pissing off a cranky old man in a top hat, straining to see what's causing the delay—a line of traffic stretches away and around the corner, out of sight.

Shit. Was the big military parade today? I can hear trumpets, so it must be. Fucking great. There's no chance of the bus getting much further—I step down with the other passengers and start winding my way towards the maze of side streets. If I stick to the alleys and narrow cut-throughs, I should be able to avoid most of the madness. Gareth was saying the parade was supposed to go all around the city and end up in the main square, outside the courthouse—the quickest way to Penny's bakery is through that square, but I can take the streets that skirt around it.

I squeeze between two people, gawking as a carriage loaded with weaponry rolls past, dragged by weary shire horses.

“We can't lose,” I hear a man brag, leaning into his companion. “I hear the Mage has even roped the wizard Pitch into this next wave—his castle was spotted in the hills this morning.”

“Good news,” the other man says. “Though you can hardly trust a _wizard_ to do an army's job. We don’t need magic tricks—we need _bodies_.”

I step down a street flanking a butcher's shop, the men's voices fading to faint grumblings. _You can't trust a wizard to do an army's job._ For all I know, they're right. I can't imagine why anyone would want to get involved in someone else's pointless war, anyway. If I were the wizard, I'd take my castle and bugger off somewhere tropical.

Our kingdom's at war with the next kingdom over. I'm not sure why. Something to do with their princess being missing, and us being responsible. When we're not fighting them it's someone else—always, always the warplanes fly. Factories churn smoke and wheels turn and we never know where we stand.

Yeah, if the wizard's got any brains in his head, he won't bother. _"Sorry, no time for war today, going to magic myself somewhere sane, instead."_

Of course, if I really _were_ a wizard, I wouldn't be anywhere near civilisation at all. I'd plant my castle's foundations in a field somewhere green and remote and just fucking bake cakes all day. Feed the crumbs to ducks, that sort of thing.

“Sorry,” I say, swerving to avoid a stray child and narrowly missing a nasty tangle with a crate of oranges. My hat falls off, and a wrinkled woman grunts at me and whacks my ankles with her walking stick, so I can’t reach behind her to get it back. “Fuck,” I mutter, which only makes her hit me harder. I trot down the alleyway, stopping to lean on a wall so I can rub at my legs.

 _The wizard Pitch_. Another ridiculous thought. Apparently he's got a moving castle, which is a _stupid_ idea, and he travels the kingdoms, trading spells and eating hearts. Gareth says he wouldn't go for me because I smell like goat, but from what I hear he isn't all that picky. Girls, boys...whoever he can find, gobbled up and spat back out again. A lad from the city—Niall something—went missing, and he came back days later looking all sorts of different. (Though rumour has it he actually went on a wild three-night bender in Southleg, and woke up in a wheelbarrow. So we probably can't blame the wizard for that.)

He would be disappointed if he tried to eat my heart. It'd probably taste like stale cheese and have zero nutritional value. _Sorry excuse for a blood pump, would not eat again._

I'm smirking as I turn the next corner. (At least I amuse myself, right?) On my left, through gaps of light, I catch glimpses of the square: waving flags, streamers, confetti, cheering crowds...the parade's still in full swing, and I don't want any part in it. It's distracting, though—all the bright colours and beating drums—and I'm fool enough to be watching another weapon-heavy carriage roll by, instead of looking where I'm going.

I round the next corner and walk straight into two soldiers.

“Oh? What's this?”

They're tall. Rude. Ugly. Standard issue, in these parts. (Uniform isn't bad, though.) Apparently ridiculous moustaches are an army thing, because they're both sporting them, like angry caterpillars camping out on their faces.

“What're you doing down here, young man?” the older one says, peering down at me over his mate's shoulder. “Should be out there, watching the parade.”

“Yeah, well, y'see,” I mumble, trying to shoulder past them. “Great guns and everything, but I've got to go somewhere else first. So. If you don't mind.”

They're not letting me past. Fuck's sake.

“And just where do you need to be that's so important?” the other soldier asks, crossing his arms and blocking my exit. I could turn and go back the way I came, but that might make them chase me, and I really can't be arsed. I want to ask why they're hanging out in alleyways harassing people, instead of watching the parade themselves, but it'd probably get me a black eye and no real answers.

“Look, I'm just going to my friend's bakery, yeah? To visit. And buy bread. And cake. Maybe a pastry. Can I go now?”

I try to push past again, and this time one of the soldiers gets his fist wound in my shirt, pushing me back.

Fuck. Should've stayed with the goats.

“What's that accent?” the soldier leers, looking me up and down. “From up on the hill, are you?”

I know better than to confirm or deny. City people aren't all that fond of us from the outskirts. Mainly because—

“Alright for you lot, isn't it, escaping conscription? Should be _volunteering_ yourselves, if you ask me.”

Ah, _there_ it is.

The second soldier agrees with his friend. (Of course.) “The war'll come for you soon enough, boy. Stink of the country, you do.” _Cheers, mate._ “Why don't you come with us, have some tea in a quiet corner? We'll soon work that stench out of you.”

Absolutely _not_. I'm cracking my jaw and winding my arm back to make a fight of it, when I feel a feather-light hand fall on my shoulder, and the sudden, overwhelming smell of spice.

“There you are, sweetheart. I was looking everywhere for you.”

I turn my head to see a man—a young man, a tall man, a...wait, who the bloody hell is this?—standing next to me, arm around my shoulder. He's wearing a ridiculous pink coat, loose over his shoulders like a cape—it's patterned with different fabrics, and what I immediately suspect to be a wagon load of glitter. His shirt underneath is lacy, stitched with stars and flowers. (No wonky goats for this one.) Every finger on his hand is loaded with gemstones, shining bright in the alleyway's trapped light. I peer up at his face—he's definitely _not_ one of the city folk who come to the shop. (Way too pretty.) (Too pretty to goat.) He's got long black hair, red-gold skin, blue-green earrings glinting in the dim, and cold, grey eyes that fix now on the soldiers.

“We're busy,” the first one growls, reaching for the man's fancy coat. “Fuck off back to the tailor’s and leave us be."

“Oh, you're busy?” the man replies calmly, fingers pressing into my shoulder. What _is_ that smell? Trees? The wild? (Magic?) “Funny, it rather looked like you were both leaving.”

“Huh?”

“You what, mate?”

Who _is_ this bloke?

Then he pulls a wand from his sleeve—a _wand!—_ and flicks it at the soldiers. **“** _ **The ants go marching two by two!”**_ , he says, and like a puppeteer toying with strings, he waves them away. They march away in sync, legs lifting halfway to their heads, arms pinned to their sides.

Looks like my nose was correct. _Magic_.

It's the first time I've seen any with my own eyes. The soldiers are swearing their heads off, marching up the alleyway, kicking over flowerpots and cracking windows with their rifles. I wonder how long they'll be trapped under the spell.

“Stop it, you wretch!” they shout in unison.

_“In the name of the Mage!”_

"Shall we get going?"

"Going where?"

He's not really into answering questions. The man steers me around a corner, still pressing into my shoulder with his ringed fingers. (He must’ve slipped his wand away up a sleeve, or maybe down a trouser leg.) "You shouldn't hold it against them,” he says quietly, gesturing behind us, though the soldiers are long gone. “I’m sure harassment is merely a means of passing the time.” His accent's nice—posh, different. I could sit by his feet and listen while he read a book aloud to me.

I don't know why I'm thinking about books when I'm being lead down an alleyway by a tall, magical stranger.

“Not being funny,” I say, finding my voice and shrugging off his hand. “But who the hell _are_ you? Tend to follow people around so you can heroically step in at the last moment, do you?”

He touches me again, taking me left, right, then left again, further and further into the maze of side streets. (And further away from the bakery.)

“I've got somewhere to be,” I protest.

"Are you always this belligerent?" he mutters. "I've just rescued you from what I expect would have been a _very_ persistent recruitment pitch. Show a little gratitude."

"Did I _ask_ you to rescue me?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "I'll invite them back, shall I? So you can punch your way out, or whatever your genius plan might have been." He tugs his sleeve in what I suspect is a magical threat. I grind my teeth and shove him into a washing line, to knock him off his stride. (It takes him a minute to see the light through the low-hanging pants.)

"You're a menace," he snarls, more concerned with the state of his hair than the sock speared on one of his many unnecessary brooches. I pick it off for him and reattach it to the frayed string with a peg. "Thank you," he manages. (I get the sense it's reluctant, but still. It's the most polite thing he's said so far.)

"Could you take me back to where we were? I need to get to the bakery."

There goes that eyebrow again. "Feeling peckish, are we?"

I squint at him and try to mimic his sneer. "My friend works there. That's where I was going before you decided to drop in and make my life difficult."

For a second I think he's going to say something snide, then he softens and brushes a bit of dust off my shoulder. Something behind us catches his eye, and then he's pulling me by one arm, telling me to get moving. "We're being followed. With me, please."

I twist my head to check over my shoulder. “More soldiers? Maybe you pissed them off enough to get the entire regiment on you.”

He frowns, his grey eyes swivelling back for another look. “They're not quite _soldiers_ , I'm afraid.”

When I look, I _do_ see soldiers—several of them—except these ones don't look like the two idiots from before. Their uniforms are black—not the green of our kingdom—and their faces...their faces are _wrong_. It's like I'm looking at age itself, if that makes sense. (It doesn't, but... _they_ don't make sense.)

“Are those—do those soldiers have _fangs?”_

"Most likely," he says it lightly, like it's nothing to worry about.

_"Why do they have fangs?"_

“Where to, then?” the man asks casually, cartwheeling over my question.

“I told you! Does magic make you stupid, as well as rude? I'm going to the bakery. You know, _the bread and cake shop_.” Penny and everything normal about my life is miles away, now. The noise of the parade seems to be growing more frantic as the strange, fanged, morphing figures start to close in on us. The man tightens his grip on me and steers us down another narrow passage, skipping lightly over puddles of stagnant water and waste.

“Act normal,” he whispers. "If you can manage such a thing." He sucks in a breath. "I do _not_ hold particularly high hopes."

“Act normal?” I don't whisper. “ _Normal,_ when you just magicked two of the Mage's men to do a little dance for you, and we're being chased down alleyways by melting vampire soldiers?”

"I don't see how any of that directly affects you and your behaviour," he scoffs, puffing hair out of his face with a breath. "It's me they're after."

"Yes, well, bloody looks like I _am_ affected, doesn't it? I mean, look, right—if you hadn't—if you'd just—!"

It's not worth the energy, getting myself worked up like this. He's very clearly _not_ listening; he's more interested in examining the grimy walls of the buildings we're running past, and the debris we're jumping over.

 _Wizards_. Are all of them this bad at rescuing people, or have I just run into a particularly rubbish one?

Part of me wants to pull away from his hand and make my own way back to the bakery, but he's twisted and turned us around so much I'm dizzy, and I've got no bloody clue where we are. We take yet another turn, festival sounds on our left now, and find ourselves in a dead-end.

Three more of the weird, _wrong_ soldiers are lurking up ahead, writhing and moaning and limping, arms outstretched towards us. We turn back, but there are more behind us, closing in, and I think those really _are_ fangs and their eyes are glowing, and—

Well, this is just great, isn't it?

_Here lies Simon Snow, novice cheesemaker and herder of goats, mutilated in an alleyway due to a crap wizarding rescue._

“Sorry to have involved you in this predicament,” the man says, not sounding very sorry at all. If anything he's annoyingly calm and collected, despite the impending massacre. I glare at him and get another good eyeful—I wonder if all wizards are this pointlessly handsome? Is that kind of their thing? _Look good, be useless, bollocks everything up_. I sigh and roll up my sleeves, wondering which mangled vampire berk I'm going to have to deck first. My new friend glances up over the heads of the shifting, slimy tossers, and—wait, is he seriously _smiling_ right now? What's there to be happy about? He's royally buggered up my day, and he's _pleased_ about it? Before I can take a swing at both him and the nearest not-soldier, he's gripping his wand and leaning down to whisper something into my ear.

I'm left burning with a feeling I don't want to think about.

 _**"Hold on to dear life."** _ _  
_

The not-soldiers reach for us, claws and fingers bending in all the wrong ways.

But we're already up—up, up and _up—_ high above them, over the city and far, far out of anyone's reach.

I look down at the tops of balding heads and feathered hats, paving stones and trampled confetti. _I'm flying_ , I think, _I'm floating—_ and my stomach drops when I remember that, according to all accepted theories on our relationship with the ground, I'll soon be _falling._ Except I _don't_ fall - the man, the _wizard,_ has got me, and he's holding me up in the air as he walks through it, smirking to himself.

" _This_ is your solution?" I screech, flailing and wrapping my legs around his waist. (If I'm going down, he's going with me.)

"Are you always this ungrateful?" he sneers, trying to peel me with off with one arm, while holding us up with the other. "There's no pleasing some people."

I tell him exactly what I think of his idea of pleasing people as he touches down on a rooftop and kicks off again, launching us higher into the air. The world goes by beneath our feet, horses and carriages and twirling dresses and music. If I weren't so bloody terrified, I might be able to enjoy the parade from up here. Everyone looks so small. (It makes me feel less insignificant.)

I bury my face into his chest, not really caring whether he minds or not. The wind bites my cheeks.

"You needn't be afraid," he drawls, touching my chin and turning my face so I can see the city spread out below. "I won't let you go."

_I won't let you go._

So far he hasn't. He also hasn't sprouted wings (that I can see), but somehow we _are_ flying—or at least _drifting—_ towards the main square.

Am _I_ flying? Am I part of his magic?

We're—he's—well. What the _fuck_ is going on?

I feel the man's hands come up behind me, closing around my own, lifting my arms from where they're clamped around his hips. His fingers stroke over mine, cool where I'm burning.

“Start walking,” he says, his voice a whisper this high in the air. “No need to cling to me like a bad smell.”

One more. If _one more person_ makes a goat jab today, I'm going to go _off._

 _“Start walking?”_ I gasp, struggling as he tries to wriggle free of my death-grip. “ _No need to cling...?_ _Are you mad?”_

But _he_ seems to be walking normally enough, as if the wisps of fog are stepping stones. I let go of him and straighten my legs, trying to match his pace, though his bastard legs are so long I have to take three steps for every one of his.

Still, I'm _doing it_. I'm walking! (Or flying. Jury's still out on that one.)

The wizard's so graceful. I should be enjoying the view, but I keep looking over my shoulder to see the clouds go by in his eyes.

“There you are,” he says against my ear, and I grip his fingers tightly, no less aware of how fucking high up we are. There's the square, the main street, the bakery...“You're a natural,” he murmurs, and for a moment I almost believe it.

 _But I'm_ _not,_ I think. _I'm not that._ _I'm a_ _natural disaster at best._

Everything looks tiny. Far away and harmless. Part of me wants to stay up here forever—it's calm. _I'm_ calm. Far away from soldiers and goats and warplanes.

Then we're going down, descending in loose, winding spirals, and I think it's a shame it has to end.

I won't tell the wizard that, mind. Wouldn't want to stoke his ego.

"Down the chimney?" he murmurs, angling us towards the bakery's rooftop. Smoke spirals up from the stacks—the ovens are working hard, and the smell's making my mouth water.

"You fucking _dare_ ," I snarl, dribbling a bit.

He laughs quietly, squeezing my fingers. "Don't tempt me."

* * *

My feet touch the wood of the bakery's balcony—he's turning me in the air, lowering me slowly until I find something solid—and finally, our fingers come apart. I miss the feel of him as soon as he lets go. He lands on the edge of the railing, looking down at me in his ridiculous cape and knee-high boots and soft trousers, and—well, he really is making a spectacle of himself, isn't he?

If he wasn't such a show-off I'd say he was beautiful.

Way too dramatic, though.

“What was that?” I pant, hands on my knees. My shirt's torn and I dread to think what my hair looks like, all wind-blown to shit. “What were those _things_?”

He lowers himself so he's sitting on the railing, legs swinging, still looking so pleased with himself. (Is smugness his thing? Like, _I can walk on air, therefore I reserve the right to be cocky at all times?_ ) "You weren't too far off in calling them—how did you phrase it, exactly?— _melted fucking vampire bastards._ "

I flinch. Alright, fine, yeah, so that _was_ what I said at one point, but still—it sounds wrong, coming out of his posh mouth.

"Why were they following you?"

He tucks his hair behind his ears and shrugs. "They were...friends of someone I used to know."

Well, that's not really an answer, is it?

Do wizards not believe in straight answers? Do they think they're like unicorns, or dragons, or other mythological creatures that don't exist?

“Who are you?” I ask, although by now, I'm pretty sure I know. (I could keep denying it to myself, but what's the point?)

It is, unsurprisingly, yet another question he chooses to avoid.

“I'll draw off those creatures,” he says. “Stay here for a bit before travelling home?” He takes his time looking me up and down. The way he's dressed, it's like being evaluated by a pair of high-end drapes. "The waiters may not wish to seat you. However, if you _do_ have an acquaintance working here, I imagine you'll be fine."

 _Travelling home_...? Does he know I'm not from the city? (And I'm getting _really_ sick of his clever fucking comments.) (Like I _do_ , in fact, have friends, thank you very much.) (I _do_ have _one_ friend.)

Even though he's a bit of an arse and my head's full of argument, I nod, because I'm weak. Because I can't help myself. “Alright. I'll wait here. Might as well eat something.” I tip my head back and watch his lips part as he looks over my hair, my eyes, my chin. "And there's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed. It's _your_ fault I'm in tatters."

He smiles, properly this time, and it's like a spark flickers to life somewhere in my head.

"My fault, is it?"

"Yeah. You're a hazard. Can't see how you get anything done, dressing like a doily of the night and loitering in alleyways."

He flicks his tongue out along his top lip, eyes bright, and I have to take a step back.

 _I...know_ you, I think, even though that's wrong. _Is it? (I want to know you.)_

_I don't know how, or when, but..._

_...did you feel that, too? The pull._ The what?

And then, with certainty: _We've been here before._

He looks at me. He's still looking when he says it.

“That's my boy.”

Then, like the dramatic over-actor he is, he tips backward over the balcony. I shout and reach out, but by the time I've got my hands planted on the railing he's gone—there's no body splattered on the stones below, and there's no fancy idiot prancing through the clouds.

He's just _gone._

Oh.

I fasten the top button of my shirt (when did that come undone?) and try to repair some of the most recent ravaging I've been put through. If Penny gets a look at me, she'll have all sorts of questions I don't know how to answer. _Simon, why do you look as though you've been accosted in a cul-de-sac by rabid vampire minions and then man-handled by a sparkly flying magician?_

“Simon Snow!”

Ah, fuck. Too late.

I spin on my heels to see her standing in the doorway, drying an oven dish on her apron. Her long, brown hair's been bullied up in a knot, and her thick-rimmed glasses are dusted in flour. Despite how frazzled she looks, she's practically shining with happiness—she really has found her calling, and I'll never be anything but thrilled for her.

“What happened to you?” she demands, stepping onto the balcony. “You look like you've gone five rounds with a tractor.”

I look down at myself and y'know, I'm not sure I haven't.

Her nose crinkles. “And you smell like goats and sewage, and...wait, is that _cedar?_ ” She twists her fingers in my curls and leans in to sniff. Her brow furrows as she gives me the Penelope Bunce special: judgment with a side of curiosity. I've missed it so much. “Simon, where _have_ you been?”

I shrug and twist away from her. “Long story.” Another shrug. “Not sure.” Total collapse of the shoulders. " _Everywhere_ , Pen. I've been _everywhere._ " (What did she say his scent was? Cedar?)

She purses her lips and takes my hand, pulling me through the door. I'm happy to go quietly and let her take control of my life. “Let's get you cleaned up—you look _awful_ , Simon. Tea and cake—that's what the situation calls for. We'll get you fed, and then I'll get to the bottom of this.” Under her apron, she's wearing one of her old pleated skirts and knee-high socks. (She's managed to get flour all over the backs of her knees, too.)

 _Finally_ , I think, as I let Penny pull me inside, away from the railing. _The day's looking up._

* * *

We're sitting in a sea of boxes and paper towels, hiding from the waves of customers battering the counter, just outside the storeroom. It's a tornado of dessert spoons and greasy cries for more. (I'd be out there braying with the best of them, to be honest, if I wasn't so completely done in.)

“How long can we hide in here?” I whisper. “You're the _assistant manager_. They're going to notice you're missing.”

Penny wrinkles her nose and prods me with her fork. Her brown eyes don't miss a thing—I'm completely transparent, when she gets like this. “Long enough for you to tell me what happened, Simon Snow. How on earth did you get up on the balcony without first walking through the front door, like a reasonable person? Honestly, if you've been shimmying up drainpipes again...”

“No, no drainpipes,” I garble, cake splattering my shirt. It's a good job I'm already a mess. “My drainpipe days are behind me, I promise. I...I walked. Sort of.”

She gives me a funny look and jabs me again with the fork. I protest, but she's not listening—a waiter pokes his head around the door to ask where the spare jam is kept.

“ _Spare_ jam? How can jam be spare?”

“Shush!” she snaps, pricking my knee. “It's in the cupboard along from the spare flour, Kipling.”

“ _Kipling_?”

There's not going to be much left of me, at the rate she's going with that fork. (I realise it's my own fault, but still. It's a bit violent.)

The bloke backs out of the storeroom, shouting something about preserving the preserves, and me and Penny are alone again.

“You've got a waiter called Kipling?”

“Yes,” she sniffs, straightening her apron. “I believe his father was rather fond of little cakes.”

I mean, I can understand that.

I tell Penny about Gareth being a prat and the bus getting stuck in traffic, then I mention the leery soldiers in the alleyway. (She's particularly furious about that part. Penny can be dead scary when she's pissed off.) Then I tell her about the man in the over-the-top cape, and how he'd held my hands as we walked on air. (It probably sounds like a ridiculous metaphor, but I keep my face straight, so she knows not to laugh.)

“Simon...” she rubs the latest stabbing spot with the back of her hand. “You need to be more careful.”

I groan. “Don't start, Pen. It was _a_ wizard, sure, but it wasn't the—”

“Of course it was the wizard Pitch, Simon! How dim _are_ you? The city girls have all been told not to go anywhere alone, while his castle's in the hills. He was going to steal your heart!”

I stuff my face with the last of the cake, so I don't have to think of a reply to that. I suppose I could mention the goat thing—tell her what Gareth said. _I'm wizard-proof, Penny, owing to the smell._

“Not likely. By all accounts, he only goes after fit people.”

“The wizard Pitch would have eaten your heart, Simon,” she says, ignoring me. “ _Fit_ or not. He'd have dismantled it completely, much like you've done to that poor vanilla sponge.”

I look down at the mess I've made on the saucer. Weirdly enough, I don't have much of an appetite anymore. “Thanks a lot. I didn't think there was anything in this world that could ruin cake for me, but you've managed it. Congratulations.”

She sighs, leaning back against boxes of cutlery and bagged sugar. “I worry about you, Simon. You can't exactly defend yourself with cheese, can you?”

“I don't know. I mean, a wheel of cheese is pretty fucking heavy. You could definitely kill a man with cheese, Penny.”

“I'm being serious!” She's waving that damn fork at me again, so I better shut up and listen before she inflicts another puncture wound. “The Wraith has been sighted again, too. All sorts of dark creatures out there these days. The hill doesn't offer you any protection, Simon—if anything, the Fromagerie is _more_ exposed.” _The Wraith._ Great, another dollop of myth to go with the day. I mean, why not? _Here, have a run-in with a sexy-but-cannibalistic glittery show-off, then worry about having the life sucked out of you by the Wraith of the Waste, while you're at it._ She's about to say more, but we're interrupted by another bakery worker. (This one's on the hunt for doilies.) (It makes me think about the wizard and his lacy shirt.) Penny sighs and shifts two boxes over. “Here. Distribute with caution—I was sitting on them, so they'll be warm.” The waiter shuffles off with his box.

“You're right busy. I shouldn't have come.” I start flapping at myself, as if I can possibly make my stained, ripped shirt look any more presentable. “What time do you get off?”

Penny hesitates, eyes flicking over to the door and the steady stream of heads that crisscross back and forth beyond it. Some of them stop to peer in at us, gesturing madly with jars of jam and steaming pots of tea.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, “Don't worry. I don't know why I came. We'll visit another day, yeah?”

“Simon,” she says as I stagger to my feet, accidentally stepping on the saucer and getting cake innards all over my shoe. “You could stay until eight and I'll run you home? Then at least I'll know you're safe. The _wizard_ , Simon, honestly!”

Penny's really been doing well lately. She's got one of those new motor cars and everything—she uses it to deliver cakes and sandwiches around the city.

“No, it's too out of your way, Pen. I can take the bus.”

I suddenly want to be home so badly, my stomach aches. (That could also be because I ate too much.)

I reach over to pull a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. She softens and pulls me into a hug, and I smudge jam all over her apron. (She gets flour in my hair.)

“Are you sure? I can sneak off for an hour and we could—”

_“Miss Bunce, the macarons are ready!”_

“Alright, alright!” she snaps, flinging the fork at the open door. Kipling, or whoever it was, ducks out of the way just in time.

“I'll get going,” I say quickly, eyeing my escape route. I don't want to be next in line for cutlery target practice. (There's another door that leads to the back stairs, and I should be able to slip away without bumping into any well-dressed customers.) “I just wanted to see how you were doing. You look good. Catch up soon, yeah?”

“Yes, Simon, of course, but—” She grabs my arm before I can sprint through the storeroom door. “Do you really want to spend forever in that cheese shop, smelling of goat?”

Seriously, what is _with_ people and the goat smell today?

“It was important to Ebb,” I say quietly. “And Gareth's useless. None of the others know how to stitch a goat face properly.”

“Yes, but...” she says, smearing buttercream on her glasses. “Ebb wouldn't have wanted you to be miserable, Simon. Who's taking care of _you?_ ”

I frown and back out of the room, just as another waiter bursts in and confronts her about teaspoons.

“I'll be right there, you impatient oaf!” she yells. Before I'm completely out of earshot I hear her say, “Simon, think about it, will you? You could work here with me! _You like cake!_ ”

* * *

Back out in the street, I can think more clearly. (About Penny's offer, about cake, about the wizard.)

I _do_ like cake. That much is known. And it probably wouldn't be as bad as I imagine, living in the city—I'd get used to the noise eventually, right? And I'd never get bored. I'd never feel alone because I'd never _be_ alone. And there'd be no end to all the different kinds of food I could try...sod having goat's cheese for lunch every day, I could have all sorts of other cheeses (Sheep cheese! Cow cheese?) and bread and cake and...well, y'know. _All sorts._ Even a vegetable or two, if I fancied it. And I could see Penny every day. Maybe her friends are nicer than Gareth and the lads?

But then I remember the goats. If I'm not at the farm, who'd look after them? I don't treat them half as well as Ebb did, but still. They might miss me if I weren't there to talk to them and chase them around a bit. Let them chew on my trouser cuffs while I tell them about my day.

No, there's no way I could move down here. Maybe I'd get sick of cake, if I was around it all the time. (Not likely. But you never know.) No, I belong on the hill, out of the way. If anything, all today's weirdness confirms it—I can't live in a world of parades and wizards and sky-walking. I should get back to the shop, close everything down, go to bed and write this afternoon off as a lost cause. (I'm not mentioning _any_ of this to Gareth. He'd have a field day, laughing about me with the lads when I'm mucking out the barn.)

I take the main road back to the city gates. It's a bit annoying because I keep having to elbow past people, and I get all sorts of stuff dripped down me—ice cream, tears, enthusiasm _(ugh_ )—before finding a bus that'll take me back up the hill. (Most people are still trying to get _into_ the city, so traffic's not as bad on the way out.) (There's a carriage riding right up our arse, though; the curtains are drawn so there's no chance of sticking two fingers up at the snobby git inside, unfortunately.)

I feel my neck and shoulders start to loosen as the bus goes from cobblestones to dirt, which means we're inching closer to home. I look out of the back window every now and again, checking on the idiot driver behind us. I don't know what it is exactly, but there's something wrong with his _face..._ not that you can see much of it. He's got a hat on that's as tall as a chimney, and a pointy collar pulled up around his chin. (I wonder what became of _my_ hat?)

I shrug off the worry, thanking the bus driver as I jump off at the top of the hill. Instant relief hits me as soon as my feet meet mud, instead of paving stones. _This feels right_ _._ I drag myself across the street towards the shop, comforted by the dim glow of light in the window, and the bleats I can hear coming from around the back.

This. This is what I know. This is what makes sense.

Not warplanes and parades and forks and wizards and gaudy fucking capes— _this_.

I unlock the door, relaxing as the bell jingles overhead, letting life know it can return to normal now, thank you very much. I'm sticky and sweaty and hot, and even though I know I need a bath more than anything else, I ought to check on the goats before trying to get clean.

I'm kicking off my shoes and shoving them under the counter when I hear the bell above the door jingle again. (Didn't I lock it behind me?)

“Sorry mate, we're closed. Come back tomorrow.”

I'm bending down to pull at my laces because my other shoe's being a prick, when I hear footsteps behind me. I sigh and straighten up.

“Look, I know it's good cheese but we're closed, yeah? We're open at nine in the morning. Just come back then.” I tug at my shirt, feeling the fabric protest as it peels away from my skin. (Yeah, I'm about a level five on the sweat chart.)

“What a shabby little shop.”

The lamps are turned down low, so it's gloomy in here, and there's very little light left from outside. I can't get a good look at him. I can see he's got auburn hair, flopping in his face. He's about my height, and he's dressed in this ridiculous, old-fashioned suit with frilly cuffs and too many buttons. (Must be from the city. They're into all these mad fashions.) (At least he's not glittery.)

I'm still hung up on the fact he just called my shop _shabby_. Ebb's Fromagerie, the legendary house of cheese! Who does he think he _is?_

“Unclean floors, dusty shelves, the abhorrent stench of weak, watery discipline...yes, this is a shabby affair indeed.”

His voice makes my blood boil. (For a second I thought he was the bloke from the alleyway—they're at about the same level of poshness. At least _he_ was helpful, and he at least _tried_ to disguise his insults.)

“You fucking what, mate?”

The man steps closer, sweeping an arm across the counter and knocking over my pencil pot, the box of receipts, a jar of loose change. He smirks at me, and I finally get a good look at him—he looks like he should be standing in one of the fancy shop windows in the city, selling bow ties and cufflinks to the idle rich. He's exactly the type who _would_ barge into a closed shop, demanding service while insulting the staff.

I've got no clue who this is, but I don't bloody like him, alright?

He doesn't much like me, either. I watch his pale, pretty face crinkle as he breathes me in, curling his lip as his eyes run over my rumpled, stained shirt.

“And yet, I'd say you're by _far_ the shabbiest thing in here.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and smiles at me—he's got teeth like a set of kitchen knives. (What does he bite with _those_?) “Deformed little thing...I can't imagine what he sees in _you._ Why don't you crawl back under your rock, little snake?”

I can feel my face burning as I march past him, yanking open the door. The bell above rattles violently, and I tear at my curls for good measure. Outside, I can see the moon beginning its climb—there's an empty carriage waiting for its passenger, horses pawing at the ground. (It's the same carriage that was hassling the bus on the way up the hill.) (This prick _followed me home?_ ) “Alright, mate—I don't know what this is about, and I don't really care. Get the fuck out.”

The man turns on his heels (even his _shoes_ have frills on them) and takes one, two, three clicking steps in my direction. He's got this amused look that I want to smack right off his face. “I beg your pardon?”

I make a point of bowing and swinging my arm through the open door. “Exit's over here, m'lord. Bugger off and don't come back. Whatever you're selling, I don't want it.”

He takes his time looking me over again, and I feel wretched, letting him do it. “Mouthing off to the Wraith of the Waste...my, you _are_ a brave one, aren't you?”

_The Wraith of the...?_

Surely he's messing with me? He can't—that's not—

Before I have time to think or apologise or curtsey or do fucking _anything_ besides panic, he's rushing over to me in a whisper of sound, faster than anything I've seen. He's close— _far_ too close—drawing his tongue along my cheek and muttering words I don't know into my ear. Then the bastard leans in and _bites_ me—well, a nip, really—on the side of my neck, and he's gone.

“Give my regards to Chaz.”

By the time I get my faculties back, the carriage door is slamming shut, horses turning and trotting away down the hill. I stand and watch them go, head spinning, neck stinging, one question burning through my mind.

_Who the fuck is Chaz?_

I growl into the dark and slam the door shut, bolting it a bit harder than I need to, and accidentally chipping a claw as I catch it on the latch. I turn away and stomp across the shop floor, tasting sulphur in the back of my throat, tail dragging behind me. I make an even worse mess trying to clean up after the snotty idiot—was that _really_ the _Wraith_?—because my wings keep getting in the way.

I'm halfway upstairs, thinking about running myself a bath, when I realise I shouldn't _have_ wings. Or a tail. Or claws. Or scales, for that matter.

I stumble the rest of the way, banging into walls and corners, tearing through the bathroom door so I can stare at myself in the mirror. It's cramped in here—the rooms above the shop are tiny; Ebb never needed much space for herself—and my reflection doesn't want to behave itself. As I bend down to inspect the damage, my wings send toothpaste and razors and loo roll flying all over the place.

“Fuck,” I mutter, unable to accept the new reality that is me. “Fuck. Fuck _no,_ fucking _hell,_ fucking _shit_ , fucking— _fuck!”_

The man in the shop called me a snake. He told me to crawl back under my rock, like a lizard.

And then he licked me and turned me into a dragon.

Smoke curls in the back of my throat. I choke on it.

I've got two big, red, leathery wings, a tail, and half a face of scales. I unbutton the remains of my shirt to find the hard, shiny scales continue down my arm and the right side of my body, disappearing into my trousers.

 _Nope,_ I think. _I'm not doing it. I'm not going there. Trousers stay_ on _. Some things I'd just rather not know_.

Still, I can't not _look_ , now that I've had the thought. I clumsily poke at the button until my claws snap the fabric, and my trousers fall to the tiles. Everything _looks_ normal enough—and feels normal, too, though I'm getting a handful with my scaly hand, so who knows. I release a shuddering breath, followed by a whine, which comes out sounding raspy and dark.

“Fuck's sake,” I mutter, and I don't recognise my own voice.

What an absolute nightmare of a day.

* * *

I don't know how long I spend pacing in front of the mirror. Hours, maybe? It's full dark when I finally get the bottle to go downstairs and check on the goats.

Now _that_ is a disaster.

They huddle against the back wall of the barn, bleating and cursing at me as I bang about fetching them water, sweeping up their mess, fetching fresh alfalfa. My tail gets in the way at every opportunity, coiling around a rake and sending the milk jugs flying.

“Come on guys, be reasonable—it's _me._ It's Simon.”

They scream at me until I leave, and I reckon the lads will be arriving at work tomorrow to a barn load of rattled goats. (Does fear make their milk taste different?) I traipse back into the shop, scratching the wallpaper to shit as my wings scrape up the stairs behind me.

At least there's no one here. At least I live alone.

What would Ebb say, if she could see me like this?

What would Penny say? Probably something like, _that's what you get for pissing off dark creatures, Simon. I told you to be careful._

I flop onto my bed, flat on my stomach because I can't lie on my back. (The wings get in the way.) I try curling onto my side, but there are weird, stiff ridges poking out of my spine. My tail starts flicking about, shredding the blankets. I sigh, trying to get comfortable, but the scaly side of my face gets stuck on the pillow, and then there are feathers everywhere, and I'm _choking_ , and—

Sod this. This isn't happening, this isn't real. Yesterday my life was about bagging up cheese for old ladies who spent half an hour blocking the shop door because they were talking about how badly their shoes were rubbing their feet. That's what I _like_. That's about all the excitement I can handle. That's—

I'm trying to decide the exact moment that today went to shit. Was it when Gareth pissed me off and I decided to visit Penny? Was it when I stepped off the bus and went down the side streets? Was it when I insulted the Wraith of the Waste instead of tolerating his shit-talking, and he licked a curse into me?

Or was it when that bloody wizard in his stupid lacy shirt swooped down and literally plucked me off the ground like I was a...a daisy! And then he had the nerve to nearly throw me down a chimney?

Hard to say, really.

All I know is that this isn't happening. It _can't_ be.

_I am not a dragon._

So with that absolutely undeniable fact of life in mind, I am going to sleep. I am going to sleep without _any weird dreams whatsoever_ , and when I wake up and go into the bathroom and look in the mirror, I am not going to see wings or a tail or fucking _scales_ all over my arse. That's just not going to happen. That's not how it is. I'll just see me. Blue eyes, moles, freckles, skin. Plain, simple, _shabby_ Simon Snow. ( _You're by far the shabbiest thing in here._ )

This is not what I am.

Is it?

Sleep. Sleep will fix this. Sleep makes everything better.

_(But what if it doesn't?)_

_(What then?)_

At least I know it's not my destiny for interesting things to happen. That thought comforts me. I'm part of the furniture, a background character, a tiny speck in a much bigger picture...the only exciting thing that could happen to me tomorrow is that it _might_ rain when I'm putting out the special offers sign, and Gareth _might_ walk through the shop at the wrong time and have to serve a customer.

I try to roll over and nearly spear myself on the spade at the end of my tail. It's a ridiculous thing—red and rubbery—and I don't seem to have any control over it. In the moonlight, the scales along my arm are shining and bright. I touch them, and my fingers come away oily and smudged.

I never did have a bath.

Oh well. I'm already covered in grime. No need to soak in regret, too. (Do dragons bother with baths?)

Best just to sleep and wake up to find this was all a horrendously vivid nightmare.

There's no such thing as curses. Magic, moving castles, dragon wings—all of that's a load of nonsense.

And graceful, grumpy wizards who put their arm around you and fall backwards over balconies and call you their boy?

Well, they can fuck right off, too.

It's been a long day. A long day—that's all this was.

The days are _always_ long.


	2. Castles don't move

_Simon, that's a_ _fair question to which there’s no fair answer._

Ebb used to say that when I complained about things I didn’t understand. I’d ask her why goats eat clover but not milkweed, and she’d give me The Line, which I knew meant it was time to shut up and stop asking. If she could see me now—in my pants on my bedroom floor, bent and broken—she’d mutter it into my ear like a curse. (A _curse.)_

_Why is this happening? Why do I have wings? Why didn’t my dragon parts go away in the night?_

All fair questions.

None fairly answered.

I sigh and scrape myself up off the floorboards, knees creaking in chorus with my spine—at this point, I’m held together mostly by spite.

This morning I remain the owner of one red, unruly tail and two large crimson wings that, despite my best efforts, have wrecked everything within reach. My curtains are shredded, the mattress is full of holes, and there are bits of unidentified fabric stuck between the hooked claws where my toes used to be.

For fuck’s sake.

Seriously, who thought that of all the people on this miserable hillside, _I_ was earmarked for adventure? _Wait,_ y _ou've got the wrong lizard!_

I mean. I just—if only—well, _fuck_.

_Castles don't move. People can't fly. I am not a dragon._

I keep saying it over and over in my head, but I don't know who I'm trying to convince.

“Snow! What's going on? Are you up there?”

Those would be the dulcet tones of Gareth, drifting up the stairs. That’s all I need. What’s he going to say when he cops a load of my scaly arse?

“Yeah, Gaz. I’m here,” I rasp. I sound like shit. (I _slept_ like shit.)

“You sound like shit!” he shouts. And then I hear the noise I’ve been dreading—footsteps on the stairs.

There’s no way, in the name of cheese and goats and everything good in this world, I’m letting someone see me like this. I haven’t had another look in the bathroom mirror yet, but a glance along my body confirms the worst of it—claws, knobby bits, rowdy git of a tail.

“Don’t come up here!”

Too late. I can already hear him banging about on the landing.

A thin panel of chipped wood is all that stands between me and disaster. ( _Further_ disaster.) (It's pretty damn disastrous already, let's be honest.) There’s always the chance that Gareth—dim as he is—doesn’t notice anything strange about me. But there’s also the chance he _does_ notice and decides to make his fortune by going to the papers. _Read all about it, local goat farmer starts new life as a two-legged snake!_ And then everyone knows I’m cursed, and nobody wants cursed snake cheese, do they? I’m out of a job and a home and I look like _this_ and—

Nope. No way. If there’s any part of my life that’s salvageable, it depends on me _not_ letting anyone see the wings, the tail, the new fangs forcing their way through my gums. (Am I a vampire dragon?)

“You alright in there, mate?”

I can hear Gareth dragging his knuckles along the door frame. I launch myself under the remains of my blanket, pulling it up over my head.

“I’m ill,” I croak. “Dying.” (Because I wish I was.) “Can’t work today.” (How could I?)

Gareth laughs, but he doesn’t open the door. I must sound awful enough to put him off.

“Rough night, then?” _Yes, Gareth, you could say that._ “Trixie said she saw you in the square.”

Oh, great. All this time spent worrying about how I’m turning into a wordless horror, and I hadn’t stopped to consider there might be _witnesses_ to yesterday’s merry jaunt with that prat of a wizard.

My face gets hot thinking about his lacy undershirt.

Fuck, I want to die.

“Yeah. Rough night. Right. It was the worst.”

Let him think I spent the last twenty-four hours staring oblivion in the face, waking up in a wheelbarrow—better that than the truth. _Oh, well, I went for a nice walk in the sky with a fit savage, then got followed home by a pasty bloke in a frilly suit—who, by the way, was short and not_ that _good looking—and then he licked me_ _and turned me into a reptile._

“You got out of bed at all?”

I’m not stupid. I can hear the twenty other questions woven into that one— _Have you fed the goats yet? Have you mucked them out? Have you counted the shop’s change drawer? Have you checked the lamps? Is everything ready? Am I going to have to do any or all of the above myself, because I really don’t want to and I hope you did get out of bed at some point, prior to me shouting up at the stairs at you?_

“Gaz,” I croak—and alright, I exaggerate a bit. After yesterday, I'm entitled. “I’ve done sod all, yeah? I feel rubbish. You’re going to have to do the goat stuff today.”

He groans. (I think I hear his forehead bounce off the door.) “But I’ve got to do the cheese stuff.”

The goat stuff. The cheese stuff. Ebb used to do all of it without complaint. Between the lot of us, we can't even manage to cover one sick day.

I feel smoke roiling in the back of my throat. I haven’t tested the fire-breathing yet, and he’d better not tempt me. I choke it down, hoping the added scratch in my voice helps my cause. “There’s a checklist on the fridge, remember? I wrote it last year when I had a grand total of one day off.” My tongue’s dry where my new fangs have scraped it raw. My day off last year was spent watching Penny work, drinking iced tea at one of the bakery's outdoor tables. “You’ll manage.”

He grumbles, tapping along the door with his knuckles.

I have a sudden vision of him bursting in. Coming face to face with my scabbed, scarred nipples and bolting for the hills. But maybe this _isn’t_ the end of my life? Maybe other job opportunities are right around the corner? I could be a professional goat scarer. (Get the milk out of them quicker, that sort of thing.)

I know Ebb would tell me to look on the bright side, so I’m trying.

But Ebb’s not here.

There’s just me, Gareth and the door.

_Mleeeeeehhh!_ comes the cry of a goat from outside.

Alright so there’s me, Gareth, the door and the goats.

“Reckon you’ll feel better tomorrow?” he asks hesitantly. _(Hopefully.)_

My tail starts waving about, trying to poke me in the eye. I still haven’t wrangled much control over it. I let it maul me and lie here, defeated. Completely _hopeless_.

“Probably not.”

“What are we meant to do?” he groans. He’s taken to tapping on the door with his fingernails now, and it’s apt to drive me mad within the next five seconds. “The goats are _your job_ , Snow.”

My job. Ha!

_Wanted: Employment for one demi-dragon. Cannot work with livestock due to the fact they are scared shitless of me._

“Yeah, well, entitled to be ill, aren’t I? Bloody do it yourself.”

I sound just the right amount of arsey to piss him off. He calls me a git and stomps down the stairs, shouting for two of the others to join him in the barn. I can hear him tearing about in the kitchen below, looking for my checklist.

It pains me to think about the kitchen. I haven’t eaten since Penny gave me that vanilla sponge yesterday—I’m starving, and all I can think about is burnt meat and, for some reason, butter.

I hug myself and roll so I’m facing the wall.

Somebody’s going to see me. I have to accept that truth. The curse isn’t going away—at least not yet—and I can’t stay in my room forever. (I’ll _starve_.) How do you break a curse? Is there somewhere in the city I could go to beg for a spell? How would I get to town, looking like this? I'd give the bus driver a bloody heart attack.

It's not lost on me, the comedy. (The _truth_.) Yesterday I was chased by monsters, and today I am one.

Fucking terrible start to the week.

“ _Snow! Customers! Where are the bags?”_

I groan and roll off the bed, banging my head (and tail) on the floorboards.

“On the workbench in the back room!” I growl. _Get it together, Gaz_. My voice is gravelly, dark. On anyone else it would sound intimidating (and maybe a little bit sexy), but on me it's depressing. At least it's got Gareth convinced—he apologises and stomps off into another room.

Eventually the buzz of high, eager voices cuts across his grumblings. The day's first customers are here, and I can only imagine the time they're having, watching him fumble about with loose change. I should be down there doing my job. But we're hardly going to sell much cheese with a dragon sitting front and centre, are we?

I'd laugh if it weren't so pitiful.

If it weren't so horribly _real_.

I run my hands over my back, exploring the spines and bumps. I press my fingers over my wings, smooth and leathery and warm. I brush the scales on my face the wrong way, slicing the skin between my fingers.

Tears prick my eyes. It's good no one can see.

_This. This is what I am. The Wraith only made it obvious_.

_Snake, lizard, dragon, monster._ _Nothing worth bothering with at all._

I notice that one of the scales on the back of my hand is black and shrivelled, almost flaking off—I pick at it but it won't come loose. I stop when it bleeds.

_He even made sure I'm a shabby dragon._

My stomach twists when I think of that bloke, smug and scornful in the evening light. I roll my shoulders back, feeling crooked bones creak and crack. I open my mouth to speak the truth of my curse out loud, but when I try to give it a name—say what _I am—_ only nonsense comes out.

“I've been _**mistaken for a tailor**_ and forced to _**hand-stitch a suit made of cobwebs**_ _.”_

“Last night I was followed home by _**faeries**_ and _**learnt to dance around a maypole**_ _.”_

“There was this man, and he _**read poetry to me while I kissed a sonnet along his neck**_ _.”_

My cheeks are burning at that last one. Fuck, what did he _do_ to me? I mean, Gareth regularly accuses me of talking crap, but still. I take a deep breath, pacing around and tearing up the floor with my claws.

What would Penny do?

I hear her voice in my head as though she's here in the room.

“ _Write it down, Simon. It's alright if you struggle with your words sometimes—try to write them down, instead.”_

Do I even _own_ a pen? _A f_ _air question_. I spend a good five minutes turning the wreckage of my room upside down before securing a scrap of blank paper. (Alright, so it's a page ripped out of a book.) I find the ends of a bottle of ink under my bed.

And then I realise the Wraith has cursed me good and proper, because not only can I not _say_ what's happened to me, I can't even write it down.

_I was followed by_ _**two cheeses** _ _and then_ _**an artisanal cheddar** _ _came into the shop and_ _**pasteurised** _ _me_ _._

_A_ _**pretty buck** _ _rescued me but he couldn't save me from the_ _**rancid chèvre** _ _who turned me into a_ _**nanny goat**_ _._

“Fuck!” I shout, screwing up the page, only realising I've spat fire when the paper flutters into my lap in ashes.

That man and his condescending face. Floppy hair, blue eyes, lacy cuffs. If I could get my hands on him right now, I'd _—_

Well, I'd make a scene, wouldn't I? Probably end up with another curse. A unicorn horn or something, to complete the fiasco that is now my appearance.

I can't talk about what's happened to me.

I can’t write a letter of complaint to the bureau of Wraiths, or whatever governing body there is for maniacs like him, and politely request they lift the curse.

I can’t do _anything_.

Bright side, bright side, bright side. _Think like Penny_. Honestly, she’d probably try and convince me to make a career of it _—_ become a living curiosity, that sort of thing. _Your local friendly marshmallow toaster! Great realistic prop for all of your historical reenactment needs!_ And what would Ebb do? She’d knock the dust off my scales and tuck me into my lair for a good night’s sleep.

It doesn't matter what Penny or Ebb would do. Neither of them are here.

I need to look in the mirror again, see what's become of me.

Pulling open the door, I linger at the top of the stairs, listening for footsteps. Nothing. I scamper across the landing towards the bathroom _—_ Gareth calls up the stairs to check on me again, but he shuts up when I open my mouth and _roar_ at him.

I slump down, scaly hand gripping a scaly knee, spine cracking as I curl over myself.

_Just stop this._

_Stop it, please._

_I don’t want to change._

_I want to be myself.  
_

_If that’s the lesson I’m supposed to learn—if that’s what the Wraith tried to lick into me—then fine. He's won.  
_

I let last night roll through my mind again. Me, entering the shop (I could've sworn I locked that door). Him, bursting in and knocking stuff over…then tipping my life upside down. What was that he said, about giving someone his regards?

Chaz. _Give my regards to Chaz._

I grunt and wisps of smoke curl from my nose. I splash my face with water, but it sizzles on my skin. Not only am I now the least attractive shop assistant this side of Fishmonger Street, I’m also burning up to the point where I’m a viable source of heat for the whole hillside.

I can hear the goats outside. (Sounds like one of them got out of the barn and went for a gallop about the yard.) I _have_ to break this curse _—_ for them, if nothing else. (For me, too. I do _not_ want to spend the rest of my life with scales.) (The scales are spreading.) (I needed a piss in the middle of the night and nearly took my fucking fingers off.)

I search through the muck and mess that is my mind, trying to find any mentions of a _Chaz_. There's this thing where lads of a certain age get their names shortened with a _z—_ I call Gareth _Gaz_ sometimes, and he's got a mate called Haz (Harry) whose cousin is Jaz (Jasper), and _he_ lives with a bloke named Laz (Peter, and I don't know what that's about, but my point still stands). So Chaz could be Charlie or Charles or Chauncey or Chad.

And then there were the mangled vampire soldiers who chased us yesterday _—_ me and the wizard. (I let myself think about him for a minute, even though it gets me even more riled up.) He told me they were after him _,_ and if they were the Wraith's men and the Wraith followed me home, he must've thought I... _knew_ the wizard, somehow?

Pieces snap into place in my mind. (I've technically got a lizard brain now, so I can be excused for the length of time it takes to make relatively simple connections.)

_Chaz is the wizard's first name.  
_

_The wizard Pitch is Chaz!_

_Chaz Pitch is the wizard!_

And for some reason, the Wraith of the Waste is after him.

My tail coils around my leg. Downstairs I can hear Gareth having a proper go at one of the customers. It sounds like Mrs Weatherly _—_ she won't take any lip from him. I wait as a cold silence settles, interrupted by my claws hassling the floorboards. (Can I trim them? Would it hurt?) Then comes the screaming. There's something relaxing about it, even though it sounds like Gaz is getting a right clobbering. (She's probably using a shoe.)

I refuse to worry about the wizard. Why should I care if that twat with the sharp teeth is after him? He's got a wand _—_ he'll be alright. He can walk on air _—_ he'll be fine. He's got enough glitter on him to temporarily blind an owl. (Or something else with excellent eyesight, I don't fucking know.) He just needs to dazzle the Wraith with his overall appearance, then he can make a quick escape. Shouldn't be hard.

No, I'm not worried about Chaz.

(He definitely wouldn't want to eat my heart _now_.)

Downstairs, the front door opens. I hear a shout, then doddering footsteps and a high-pitched voice, sounding out a tune.

The world's breaking into song while I'm up here, breaking down.

Penny's always telling me to take a deep breath and think before hitting things, but I've never seen the point. Sometimes you need to hit something. Sometimes it's the only way to get your point across.

Still, I've caused enough destruction in my room. (And the bathroom. Fuck _me_ , it's a war zone). I need to take my anger off the farm and point it in the direction that deserves it most.

I need to find that Wraith and wring his neck.

I need to _make_ him take this curse off me. Suck it back inside his fangs, or however he'd do it. Pick off my scales one by one, if needs be. (I tried that myself, but it hurts.) (I took a pair of scissors to my tail but didn't get very far. Like trying to hack through a misbehaving tree trunk.)

If I find the Wraith of the Waste, I can get my life back.

I won't need to be away from the farm for long. Just long enough to track him down. I'll take a few days' holiday and Gareth will have to suck it up for a bit. I'll come back good as new, like nothing ever went wrong.

I can feel my heart slowing. Even the idea of things being _normal_ again is enough to make me feel better. I crawl back into bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering if I'll be able to sleep to make the day pass faster. (My tail scratches _you wish_ into the wall, because it's a tosser.)

I can't tell Penny what happened, but I can tell her that I've gone. I won't say _where—_ she'd be out in the Waste in her bloody motor car, tearing up the countryside looking for me. I'll tell her I needed to get away for a few days, and ask her to check in on the goats if she gets time.

_I owe you a massive favour_ , I write. The words arrange themselves properly, so I guess it's fine to write things that aren't curse-related. _I can't tell you why, but I need to go away. Please don't worry. I promise not to climb any drainpipes. Also, I won't be sleeping in wheelbarrows._ I pause, ink smudging on the paper. _The thing about goats is they never forget a friendly face. So please don't think they hate you when you get here. They'll be so happy to see you._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Night comes and I'm ready for it.

Well. Not really. But if I don't get moving now, I never will.

I don't have much of a plan in my head. Go out there and find him, I suppose. Can't be that hard _—_ there's not a fat lot to see in the Waste. Fields and grass and weeds and a fly-infested lake. Every couple of years there's a petition from the city to make the Mage build something nice on it, but nothing happens. With the war going on, things like that are probably on hold.

It's haunted. That's the legend. The Wraith is a myth _—_ a ghost who plagues the Waste, picking off travellers and drinking their blood to stay young. He's your classic, unambitious vampire. But how dare he be _real?_ Get back in your legend and stay there, you twat. That's what I'm going to say to him. (After I beg him to lift the curse.)

Gareth and the lads are long gone. I've got one of Ebb's old coats and a blanket slung over my shoulders, covering the worst of me. (I managed to tie my wings together with cheesecloth, and it looks like I've got a giant fin sticking out of my back.) Wellies are the only thing that'll fit over my deformed feet, so I've pulled a pair on over my loosest, least important trousers. (I only have one nice pair, and I didn't want to cut a hole in them for my tail.) (That's something I have to think about now. _Does this article of clothing have a convenient tail hole?_ )

I tried to find a stick in the garden so I could tie a handkerchief to it _—_ you know, wrap some cheese and bread inside, and be done with the whole sorry tableau. (Turns out I don't own any handkerchiefs.) (I tried to fashion something out of a pair of pants and an elastic band, but that ended badly.) In the end, I stuffed my pockets full of crackers _—_ my hands aren't very dexterous, but I can spear them with my fangs, if needs be. I also tried to fill a canteen with water but my claws poked so many holes in it, it's now a colander. I'll have to drink out of puddles, like a lumpy, misshapen stray.

There aren't any excuses left to make.

Penny's letter's on the counter. (I've left money so Gareth can post it in the morning.)

I wrote a new checklist and stuck it to the fridge. (The other one could be anywhere by now.)

I did my best to tidy the shop. (My wings made everything worse.)

Time to go. Time to leave.

I stand outside, listening for sounds from the barn. The goats are settled _—_ maybe they're going to be alright after all? Doesn't sound like anyone's dying in there, at any rate. It makes sense if, at some point during the last three years, the others learnt _something_ about goats and how not to kill them. Ebb's been gone long enough for us to become self-sufficient. (In theory.)

“I'm sorry,” I say to the night sky. My breath's misting; it's cold, but I'm burning up. “I won't be long.” She can't hear me. I know that. I also know what she'd say if she could _—_ _Get inside and stop yer jabbering, before your insides turn to icicles!_ “I'm sending Penny a letter, and there's a list. The goats'll be alright.” I reach the gate and look out along the road, checking for other late-night runaways. There's no one. I inhale, hoping some of the scent might stick with me. I look around at the shop, the barn, the mud, the quiet. Drinking it all in.

I hope I won't be gone long. But...

But I'd better get a good look. Take it in and hold on tight.

“I'll come back,” I say to nothing. To no one. (To Ebb.)

And then I go.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Higher in the hills, the air is thin.

There aren't paths this far from the city, just patches of dirt where you have to hope someone's walked before. It's windy, too _—_ the wings prove useful, shielding me from the worst of it. (They were starting to ache inside their cheesecloth prison.) I have to crawl up the steepest parts, but my claws dig into the dirt, so I don't have to worry about slipping. (I gave up on the wellies, too.) At least my new mutant parts can be useful.

Ebb's coat is tied around my neck so it doesn't fly away. The blanket slipped off ages ago. In theory I packed enough emergency crackers to last a fair few miles, but I've already stopped twice for a break, and my pockets are almost empty. I sit on the rocks and take in the view.

The city's bright tonight _—_ light and fire and smoke. I imagine I'm there in one of the squares, taking it all in. It's easy enough to miss it from here, but I know if I _was_ down there, I'd be itching to leave.

I haven't spoken to anybody since leaving the farm. That's for the best. There was an old man at the top of Westfoot Lane, but he crossed and pushed through a hedge so he didn't have to walk past me.

I scratch the black scale on the back of my hand, closing my wings around my face to keep the wind off. My tail's doing its own thing, but it's been good for keeping balance over the rockier bits, so I'm tolerating it.

I've been out here for hours.

I'm going nowhere fast.

I'm thinking about flopping onto my side, rolling down the hill and giving up, when I hear a whistling sound. I frown, scrabbling on my hands and knees, scratching myself good and proper.

“Hello?” I rasp. It's the first thing I've said in hours. “Is someone there?”

Another whistle, followed by a _—_ wait, was that a _bark_?

Next thing I know I'm being bowled over backwards by a furry nuisance that's roughly the size of a handbag.

“What _—_ no _—_ you can't _—_ _bugger off!”_

I free myself and sit up. I try to stare the dog down, but I was never much good at staring competitions, and the dog wins easily. It sits on my chest with an expression that could curdle milk, making me feel like the smallest thing on the hillside.

“Well. Um. Uh, can _—_ can I help you with something?”

It's an odd thing to say to a dog. But there's something very undoglike (Non-doggish? Not-dog?) about it that makes me want to treat it like a person.

It doesn't say anything back. (And how absurd my life has become, that a talking dog wouldn't surprise me at all.) (We're one talking animal companion away from a full-blown fairy tale.) It stares at me. I untie Ebb's coat and drape it over its back _—_ I can't see much in the dark, but it's got golden-brown fur and big, brown eyes.

“There you go." I dig into my pockets and find half a cracker. The dog turns its nose up. “Sorry, it's all I've got. Unless you like cheese?”

Apparently that's the wrong thing to say, because the dog jumps off me and goes bounding over the top of the next rise. (I swear it looks back at me and beckons me with its frizzy, flappy ears.) (What kind of dog _is_ it? A spaniel?) I scrape myself off the rocks and follow, bundling Ebb's coat under one arm. What have I got to lose? Apparently a nice, quiet life is off the cards, so I might as well go for late-night walks with strange animals.

The dog yips at me to get a move on, and I'm trying to think if I've ever wanted to kick an animal before. I never lost my temper with the goats, even though they could be right gits sometimes. When you're a family (a weird, googly-eyed family), you get on with it, don't you? Ebb never kicked _me_ when I was being a pest. So I never kicked a goat, and I'm not going to kick this dog.

I reach the crest of the hill and fall to my knees. (Apparently turning into a dragon doesn't automatically grant you a decent amount of stamina.)

The dog's barking, twisting its nose off into the dark. I have to squint _—_ really, my eyesight's terrible even in broad daylight; Penny's been on at me for years about getting glasses _—_ but I think I can see what the fuss is about.

I'm not sure, but...

Are those _lights_?

Isn't that particular patch of black, ominous wasteland _slightly darker_ and more jagged than the rest?

I've never been to the Waste before. (It's not exactly Top Five Tourist Destinations material.) (Penny's bakery is on the Top Five Tourist Destinations list, and in my opinion, should occupy all five spots.) I don't even know if I'm _in_ the Waste yet. There's not exactly a signpost to go off. You're in the city or the hills, and then you're...not.

I swallow, running my eyes over the shape rising up from the black. There are tall, warped turrets, and what looks suspiciously like a spire...behind it I see something sparkly, and for a moment I'm seized with panic because I think it's _glitter_ and then I'm thinking about _him_ again.

_You're a natural._

But it's not glitter, just the moon making a mockery of itself on the lake. I always pictured the Waste as being nasty, scabby juts of land no one bothers with, but it's nice up here. Peaceful. Green and lush, even in the dark. It makes sense that when the Wraith chose a place to build his massive gothic hell-mansion, he picked here.

“Good boy,” I say, bending down to ruffle the dog's ears. It turns and nips my fingers. “Good...girl?” I ask.

It (she?) nods.

Oh.

“Alright, then. Sorry about that. Not my place to go around offending wildlife, is it?”

That earns me another nip on the ankle.

“ _Fuck—_ look _—_ I'm sorry! You're not wildlife. There, happy?”

She doesn't bite me again, which I take as a mildly encouraging sign.

I can't believe I'm kneeling on a hill in the early hours, freezing my bollocks off, talking to a dog. Her head droops between her front paws. She'll rip my fingers off if I try to ruffle her again, so I resist the urge.

That's when I hear the voice.

“Summer! Where are you?”

I look up. I've been outside all night, but I wouldn't say there's any sort of sunshine, though the sky's turning red in anticipation.

She raises her head and looks down the hill _—_ in this light, her eyes are almost gold. She starts barking and her tail gives a wag. (Mine does too, which is mortifying.) She runs towards the light in the dark and I follow, because I'm cold and tired and incredibly hungry.

_Spare jam_ , I think hysterically. _I'd even go for a jar of spare jam, I'm that desperate._

* * *

  
  


On my way down the hill and across the drawbridge _(Drawbridge?_ ) I'm thinking about the Wraith, and what I'm going to say when I get my hands on him. In my head there's a lot of shouting and swearing and kicking, and maybe if I can rile the dog up enough, she'll provide a bit of ankle-biting, too. (Not that a mangy vampire would taste very good.)

Once this is over, I'm going back to the farm and never leaving again. No more wild notions of bakery visits and alleyway shortcuts for me. And if I ever bump into Chaz Pitch, he's getting one or two pieces of my mind. (Or three.) (Or all of it.) (None of my heart, though.)

The dog's banging her tail against a huge, blackened door frame. The door itself is open _—_ I can see light and feel warmth _,_ signs of life and welcome. I take a deep breath and look up, meeting the gaze of a dozen or so gargoyles. Seems about right, given the general mood of the place.

_You can do this._

_For the goats, yeah?  
_

Then I'm climbing stone steps and entering a glowing kitchen, and I can't think about anything except a smug, sneering face and the words that snaked out of his mouth.

_I can't imagine what he sees in_ you.

_You're by far the shabbiest thing in here._

The dog darts between my legs, barking her head off, and I hear a man call out again. I get a glimpse of legs and my worst instincts take over _—_ I tackle him, and we're both falling backwards in a tangle. (If my tail didn't have the foresight to wrap itself around a table leg, we'd both dash our brains on the stone floor.)

“ _Br_ _eak it! Take it off me, right now!”_

"H-Hello! How can I help?"

Apparently my dragon brain doesn't want to waste time with introductions. My tail's thrashing, tightening around the man's wrist, pulling him up to face me. We're in a heap, and I reckon the element of surprise is a good thing because the Wraith is completely unprepared as I dig my hands into his shirt and swing a fist back to _—_

“Hi there! I'm Shepard. Who are you?”

He ducks in time, and my fist goes smashing into a pillar. I howl _—_ at the sky, at the lake, at the fucking ducks of the Waste, for all I care.

“Thanks for bringing Summer back. She keeps trying to run away but she never takes a map.” He laughs at his own joke. _(Is_ it a joke?) “Nice to meet you! Sorry about your hand. Are you cold? I'll get you some tea. We've got all sorts _—_ bagged, loose leaf _._ I'll get some water boiling. The fire's in a good mood tonight, so we might as well.”

I'm staring holes through him as he stands up, dusting himself off. He doesn't seem surprised by either my appearance or bad attitude. This man's not the Wraith _—_ a young black man, my own age, with big, round glasses and the most brilliant smile. (I frown harder to balance things out.) What did he say his name was? Shepherd?

“We'd better close the door before all the heat escapes,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, only realising when it's too late that I've given him my scaled hand. He doesn't hesitate. “The boss doesn't get too caught up on these things, but it takes energy to heat a home this size. No point wasting firewood, right?”

“Um, well,” I stammer. I'm already returning to furnace temperature. “I suppose so? I don't know. Can't say I know a lot about heating mansions.”

He laughs, pushing the heavy door closed. He stops to check a metal dial placed above it _,_ where an arrow points to a cloud. I can't see all of the symbols from here, but there's a sun, a rain cloud, and a star. “Trust me, it's not easy! You can tear through a whole forest worth of wood, if you're not careful. What's your name, anyway? Where are you from?”

_The name's Simon Snow and I've come from a goat farm in the hills to kill your evil vampire overlord._

“I'm Simon Snow,” I mumble, because apparently I'm all thought and no talk. “From the hill?” I've never had to tell someone where I'm from before. “You're from...where? The Waste?”

He starts laughing, pulling a wooden chair from next to a table and placing it in front of the fire. It's a big, stone fireplace with a small cluster of orange flames _—_ surely that's not enough to heat the whole mansion? There must be fires in every room. On my right I see the beginnings of a spiral staircase, and doors leading off into darkness.

The dog's curled up by the hearth. I sink into the chair, wings draped over the back, wondering if Shepard's planning on warming me up before he murders me. (Or would he drain me? His boss _is_ a vampire.)

“No, I'm definitely not from the Waste.”

He starts feeding logs into the fire. The dog yawns and tucks her nose under a paw, apparently done with the conversation.

“Then where?” I growl. He hasn't mentioned my dragon bits yet, but maybe he's a _polite_ foul henchman.

“Oh, far from here. The royal city _—_ ever been?”

"No." The fire's doing wonders for my joints. I'm wondering at which point I should jump up and demand to see the Wraith, when Shepard steers our talk elsewhere.

“So what brings you all the way out here, Simon? Cold night for a walk.”

He's got a pan of water over the flames, bustling about in a cabinet for cups and saucers. _I'm really going to do this_ , I think. _Have a cup of tea in the Wraith's house of horrors_. (I haven't seen much of the interior, but so far, the gargoyle aesthetic continues.)

“Yeah,” I say. I don't feel the need to be mean to Shepard, now that the urge to punch something has passed. I feel very comfortable in my death agonies, or whatever this is. “About that. Um, you mentioned your...your _boss_. Is he in?”

_Is he in._ Like I'm here for a fucking scheduled appointment. Like I'm just dropping by for tea, biscuits and a chat about the weather. (Which, alright, Shepard _is_ dishing out digestives now, but still.)

I breathe in, letting smoke furl and ripple in my chest.

Then I try again.

“Sorry. Look, it's _—_ I've been _**cultured**_ , alright? And it was him. He did it.”

“You've _—_ wait, what?”

“He _**curdled**_ me. He followed me home last night and _—_ ” I wave my arms around. (My tail joins in, because of course it bloody does.) I think he gets the idea _—_ he pushes his glasses up his nose and reaches into a drawer for paper and a pencil. _This is no time for a preliminary sketch._ “I need him to put it right. Lift the _**wedge.**_ ” I grimace. _I want to tell you about my curse but all I can talk about is cheese._

Shepard stirs milk into a cup and passes it to me. He's looking at me strangely, which is fair enough _—_ but he also looks interested. ( _Really_ interested.) My claw can barely fit through the handle of the teacup, and I think before tonight is done there'll be more than one smashed teacup on the hearth. I glance around, curious as to what else is on this floor of the mansion. Is the Wraith really into gargoyles? Do they remind him of simpler times, before he drank blood for an unliving? Does his gang of faceless minions also appreciate a nice cup of earl grey, after a hard day's stalking?

“Sorry, but _—_ what? I mean...cheese? It's not like him to mess with people. Don't get me wrong, he _can_ get irate, but usually he lets me know when he's feeling uptight. Bit of stretching and a cup of camomile, and he calms right down.”

“A bit of _—_?”

I can't say it, can't even _think_ it. What does the Wraith need to stretch, exactly? His _jaw_? (That _was_ quite the mouthful of teeth he was sporting.)

My knee starts shaking, hooked claws clacking off stone. I'm getting agitated, and maybe that will help. Maybe the fire will come rolling out of me and I'll burn the Wraith to a crisp before he has chance to insult me. ( _Deformed little thing_.)

“Well, he wasn't calm last night. Licked my _**cheddar**_ and then there was _**mould**_ growing out of my back, you know. Went upstairs and found _**rind**_ in my trousers.”

_Stop talking. Just...fucking stop._

Shepard looks concerned, then settles into another grin. He prepares a bowl of water for the dog, placing it near her head. “Hey, is that a curse? A wicked one, too. Who'd you upset that badly? You know what, I _think_ I've seen it all, but then something comes along and surprises me.” He pulls up another chair and leans into me, sketching lines. I can't understand why he isn't disgusted. “Speaking of, would you mind answering a few questions for my research? Feel free to wait until he gets back, but maybe later you could tell me about your, um...condition? If you wouldn't mind. How are the wings? Do they work?”

“ _I doubt he can tell you anything useful, kid. That's a pretty strong curse he's under.”_

Shepard laughs under his breath and I'm left reeling in my chair, casting about for the source of the new voice. There's no one else here _—_ there are books stacked haphazardly all over the place, but surely books don't talk. ( _Do_ they?)

I glance down, eyeing Summer suspiciously. She looks up at me, and I swear if dogs had eyebrows she'd raise them both.

It bloody well _had_ to be the dog, though. There's no one else here.

“ _She's got a nasty one, too_.”

Shepard's pulling things out of kitchen cupboards, piling a plate with crackers, tiny carrots and slices of ham. My stomach's rumbling, but he places the plate down in front of the dog, instead. “Here you go. Her name's not Summer, but we're making do until we can find a way to get her unmagicked.” He turns his head and talks to the fireplace. “What does her curse say again?”

I follow his gaze and almost fall out of my chair. The fire in the grate is flickering and _—_ I shit you not _—_ _winking_ at me. It's got two eyes like holes in the red, and an ashy slit for a mouth.

“What in the ever loving fuck are _you_?” I ask, drawing a shocked gasp from Shepard and a sharp nip from Summer. _“Ow!_ Sorry. But...you're a _fire_. What _is_ this place?”

Why does the Wraith have a _talking fireplace?_

“ _My name is Calcifer and I am a fire demon.”_ There's a loud crackle, and I think the fire is trying to _laugh_. “ _Doesn't that sound like a confession? Anyway, kid—I run this place. Literally. Without me the whole thing falls apart.”_

“Calcifer keeps the castle moving,” Shepard explains, feeding the fire another log. I watch as the demon stretches and folds itself over it. He doesn't have a shape _—_ not really _—_ he's just _flames_ , licking and rolling. “He can be a grouch, but he means well.”

“ _Who are you calling a grouch?”_ the fire crackles, burning bright green for a moment before settling again. _“Honestly, you don't know the meaning of a hard day's work. He has me over here slaving away every day, to keep you all warm and free!”_

I can't look at anything else. Even my stomach gurgling a dark symphony can't distract me from the fact that I'm watching _an actual demon_ run its mouth in a fireplace. “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

I have the sudden realisation that I might not be the strangest thing in the room. (It's kind of nice.)

“ _I'd ask the same of you, but I don't think you can tell me.”_ If a fire can be capable of scrutiny, I'd say that's what's happening. _“I'd bet you three twigs and a cupful of sawdust that's part of your curse. Can't talk about it, right?”_

I shake my head. Then I nod. Then I shrug for good measure.

“ _The dog, I can read.”_ The fire clears its throat. It sounds like walking over twigs in a forest. _“_ _ **To wander until you find true love, or the fire below falls for the sun up above.**_ ”

We sit in silence.

“Do all curses rhyme?” I ask. “Because that's silly.”

So the dog needs to find true love, or wait for fire to fall in love with the sun? Either way, it seems unlikely.

Calcifer sparks and settles back into the blackening logs. _“You're a funny one. He's going to have a hard time with you, I can tell. Heck of a curse you've got there. Bet you open your mouth and all sorts of rubbish comes out.”_

My wings flap idly, tail wrapped around the chair leg. I wonder what time it is _—_ through the high, lead-framed windows, I can see a spreading pink glow. Is morning here?

I ache.

“Can you break it for me?” I murmur, wishing I had food and a bath and a body I'm not afraid to sleep in.

“ _Tell you what,”_ comes the burning, smoking reply. _“I'll help you break your curse, if you help me break mine.”_

“You're cursed, too?” I sneak a glance at Shepard, in case he wants in on this. (Apparently he's the only one in the room who's _not_ cursed.) “How do I break yours?”

“ _If I knew that, I wouldn't ask for your help, would I?”_ Twigs snap and twist, and I have to turn my head away before the brightness blinds me. _“Can't say we've had a dragon stop by before. Isn't it nice to be surprised, every now and again?”_

I try to give him my best _I'll kill you_ look, though to be honest, it's hard to intimidate actual fire.

“I am _not_ a dragon.”

“ _If you say so.”_

“Now, can I get you something to eat?" Shepard asks, refilling my teacup. "Calcifer doesn't listen to me, but seeing as you're _—_ well, you're _fascinating—_ maybe he'll agree to help out, just this once?”

Shepard fixes the fire with his best, most earnest smile, and I swear I hear the flames sigh.

“ _Make it quick. You know how much hot water he needs for his bath—an ocean's worth. I need to keep my heat for that_.”

Shepard starts humming as he pokes around the kitchen. I manage to put my cup on the floor without shattering it.

“Might as well get started on breakfast, huh? The sun's creeping up on us.”

I look out of the window again. He's right _—_ daylight, growing brave.

“What are you doing here, Shepard?” I ask, trying not to launch myself across the room as I watch him pull slices of bacon from waxed paper. “Why are you working for the Wraith?” _And why aren't you a mangled vampire soldier, like all his other friends?_

“The _Wraith_?” he laughs, gripping a frying pan and ignoring Calcifer's complaints. “Are you kidding me? Look, I've never met the guy, but nothing I've heard makes me want to.” The fire demon pushes itself under its logs, refusing to cooperate. “Come on now, Cal _—_ do you want our guests to starve?”

“ _I do not exist to please you.”_

“He won't be happy if he hears you were like this.”

_“I hope your bacon burns.”_

Calcifer stretches himself across the logs again, and allows Shepard to lower the pan over his face. Soon the kitchen is filled with the smell of cooking bacon, and the pain in my stomach lurches. It's been a long time since cake and crackers.

“If you don't work for the Wraith of the Waste, then whose house is this?” I ask. “Where are we?”

_What am I doing_?

“Hey, don’t worry. Nothing bad’s going to happen. Sure, he’ll be surprised, but he’s not going to kick you out _—_ Calcifer and I won’t let him. You're way too interesting.”

“ _Don’t drag me into your schemes.”_

Shepard goes on as though the fire hasn’t excluded itself from the narrative. “You’re in the wizard Pitch’s house. Well, he likes to call it a castle. It’s more of a mansion though, right? Did you see much of the outside? He based the design on his childhood home. It's not as creepy in the daylight.”

He’s looking at me expectantly, like I ought to show an interest. My brain gets sort of stuck on being in the wizard's castle _—_ I think about how he’d looked at me yesterday, before he threw himself off the balcony.

_Castles don’t move. People don’t fly. I am not a dragon._

“And as for what I’m doing here,” Shepard continues, clearing away our cups, "well, officially I'm his apprentice _—_ most wizards take one on to learn the trade, you know.” (I don’t, but alright.) “But really I’m more of a research student _—_ he’s letting me stay in the castle to study its moving parts, and as long as I get the day-to-day things done and don’t break anything, he lets me meet all kinds of magical creatures. I get to watch him make the spells we trade, mix potions, and so on. It’s great. I’ve been here, oh _—_ how long, Calcifer? A year, now?” (The fire can’t get a word in edgeways.) “And I’m learning so much about magic. So, _so_ much.” His eyes spark when they land on me. “But there's always more to know. Like you _—_ I've never seen anything like you. I want to get my doctorate in magical creatures one day, and you could have your own chapter.”

He finally pauses, no doubt to mentally harvest more amazing facts of _life with the wizard Pitch!_ , when the dial above the door spins and lands on the star. The kitchen falls silent. (Even Calcifer stops crackling.) (Summer’s still snoring, though.)

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until it comes burning out of me, scaring the life out of Calcifer, who ducks behind a log.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t torment my fireplace.”

There’s a lump in my throat, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the smoke or anticipation. _His voice_. I’m lost in the alleyways again, running from the Wraith’s lackeys, tripping over nothing and feeling his cool fingers fold over mine.

_That’s my boy._

I’ve come all this way and not thought once about what I’ll do if I see him again. If he recognises me. (Surely he’s going to recognise me?)

The door closes and the dial spins, arrow settling back on the cloud. A figure in a black cloak drags itself up the steps. Shepard, who’s still wrestling with the challenge of _not_ burning the bacon (I guess Calcifer _did_ curse it), grins and lifts a hand in greeting.

"Welcome home. Successful day? Or night, I guess.”

There’s nothing but sunlight now, making the dust dance in spirals above our heads. I’m tired and confused and furious to see him standing there, not looking at me.

The wizard doesn’t answer his apprentice’s question.

(Not just me he does that to, then.)

He shrugs off his cloak and folds it over a stack of books. Underneath he's wearing a shirt decorated with silver ivy leaves, and fitted trousers which...well, it's painfully obvious where he's keeping his wand, let's put it that way.

He pretends not to notice my wings. He moves around me to reach Shepard, taking the frying pan from his hand. “Don't worry yourself,” he says softly. He looks knackered. (I wonder where he's been?)

Shepard narrates his way to the table, arms loaded with plates and cutlery, and Summer _—_ who obviously wasn’t _that_ tired _—_ follows him. I’m left looking up at the wizard as he cooks, ignoring the protestations of his fire demon, who tosses vaguely endearing insults at him.

“ _Nice to see you, you nocturnal wreck.”_

“Same to you, Calcifer. You're as horrific as when last we met.”

“ _And you're equally as garish. Didn’t gorge yourself on too many hearts last night, I hope? Not too full for bacon?”_

The wizard smirks and pushes the pan down into the flames. “Never too full for bacon.”

He sighs and I see how ravaged he is around the eyes. There's an ugly emotion curling with the smoke in my lungs, but I don't know what it is. All I know is that I don't like the thought of him staying out and stealing hearts all night, like an attractive, promiscuous mugger. He finally looks at me _—_ _all_ of me, from tail to tip _—_ and if he remembers me from yesterday, he’s careful not to let it show in his eyes.

_You_ , I think. _You occult blister. You did this to me._

“Baz,” Shepard calls, balancing books on a chair and lifting Summer up to table level. “Remember to make extra! There’s plenty more bacon on the counter. Rolls, too. Do you like bacon rolls, Simon?”

“ _Baz?”_ I splutter. “Your name's Baz?" No reaction. "Then who the fuck is _Chaz?”_

He looks as me like I’ve run him through with a broadsword and jiggled the blade around in his ribs, to further the agony. “How...where did you hear that name?”

“I heard it when your friend dropped by my shop and _**scalded my curds**_.”

“ _What?”_ I watch his jaw tighten as he swallows. His tongue flicks out to touch his top lip like it did yesterday, and I think he’s about to say something rotten. But then his face is wiped clean of all feeling, and he stares blankly into the flames, instead. “There's no one named Chaz here. I'm afraid you're mistaken.”

_You did this to me. Look at me._

He takes the pan out of the fire and swings it over my head, as if I’m not here at all. I turn and watch him go to the table, and honestly, I wouldn’t care if my tail flicked out and tripped him, if he’s going to be such a prick.

He looks back once, just for a moment, as he starts sliding bacon onto plates.

“Calcifer, why is there a surly dragon in my kitchen?”

And I picture Ebb's face clearly, as though she were here with me.

_That's a fair question to which there’s no fair answer._

“ _The dog found him outside. He's cursed.”_

“I can see that.”

Shepard's arranging the table while Summer nudges her as-yet empty plate. I take a good look at the cosy scene unfolding before me as the wizard ( _Baz_ ) slides gracefully into a chair, before stomping over to the kitchen counter.

“Where's your damn butter?”

Shepard's focused on pouring tea into cups (and a saucer for the dog), so it's left to Baz to reply. He raises an eyebrow at me and points at the cupboards above my head. “Look in there. Next to the cheese.” His voice cracks and he glances down hurriedly, shoving strips of burnt bacon inside a flaky bread roll.

He _does_ remember me.

But he's pretending not to.

I narrow my eyes and viciously hunt down the butter dish.

“Come and eat,” Shepard says, flitting nervously between us. Summer laps her tea and Calcifer hauls himself over another log. “Baz, this is Simon Snow. I'm going to ask him some questions later, if that's alright. Isn't he interesting?”

Baz stuffs half a roll into his face and nods, blushing along his neck. I force myself into an empty chair at the table, pleased my dragon appendages are making a spectacle of themselves. (My tail spears itself a rasher of bacon which it then waves about, conducting our miserable orchestra.)

_I've got a few questions of my own,_ I think, scraping my scaled arm on the table's edge. It's a struggle holding a knife, so I stick a claw in the butter and butcher my bread with that, instead. Baz's eyelashes flutter, but he doesn't look at me.

_Fair questions for the great wizard Pitch._

_And I'll expect fair answers._


	3. The wizard's names

“Are you quite finished?”

“Not really. I could eat another.”

Eight rashers down and no end in sight.

I might be bad at the cheese stuff and other practical matters, but I _can_ give a decent demonstration in how to properly slaughter a breakfast spread.

I don’t think anyone at the table knew what hunger truly was, before they saw me going to town on a bacon roll. Maybe this kind of appetite is a side-effect of my dragon curse, but I suspect I've been capable of it my whole life. I love food because food never lets you down _—_ it won’t try to hurt you. I especially like breakfast because it's a chance for me to attack the day before it's had chance to attack me.

Also, in my defence, this bacon is seriously good. The bread’s perfect, too _—_ just the right amount of flaky crust and soft, fluffy innards. The butter’s salted and much richer than anything we get up on the hill. Judging by the silver cutlery, the wizard must do his shopping in the royal city. The finest shops, expensive tastes...fifty gold coins for a tea towel, that sort of thing.

I wonder where he gets his lacy shirts from?

Baz _—_ if that _is_ his name _—_ is not very conversational this morning. During our run through the alleyways he seemed to have bucket loads of clever thoughts to share, but right now he’s got his face buried in his hands so he doesn't have to look at me, dead set on pretending we've never met. Maybe he's too polite to leave the table until I’ve finished, trapped in an agony of etiquette as I reach for yet another bread roll.

I've got a curse of my own just for you, wizard: _May your table manners be the end of you._

I bite into my fourth helping, butter dripping down my chin. (There’s a fair amount smeared on my shirt, as well.) (And my trouser leg.) Summer hopped down from her book tower a long time ago and went to lie by the fire, leaving me, Baz and Shepard in an awkward circle, shunting the butter dish back and forth.

“Is this not causing you very real, physical pain?” Baz asks, not without fear.

“Can you pass the salt?” I growl.

“For the love of Merlin, Snow, _stop eating_.” A pause, then a sigh of defeat. “The butter’s already salted, you _animal_.” He peers at me from between his fingers, grey eyes as wide as our plates. Over my shoulder I hear Calcifer cackling.

“ _Dragons have tremendous appetites, Basil.”_

“And yet he's so certain he's _not_ a dragon.”

Inspired by Penny's cake fork manoeuvres, I stab forward, hoping to catch a vulnerable patch of skin. He jumps back, fending me off with a placemat.

“See, he’s an animal! I will not tolerate violence at the dinner table.”

“I’m starving. I was outside all night with a couple of crackers, looking like this. Couldn’t exactly pop down my local café and put an order in, could I? _Oh, table for one dragon? Right this way, sir.”_

“You eat as though food is going somewhere you're not, unless you prevent it from leaving right this instant, with your face.”

Is he saying I eat too much or too quickly? (Or both?)

I maintain eye contact as my tail skewers its next victim.

_Nine down and I'm stronger than ever._

The bacon’s just the right side of cremated; I am in my element. Baz might be the famous magician in the room, but _I_ am the master of breakfast.

“We wouldn’t want anything to go to waste,” Shepard says cheerfully enough, though his glasses are fogged with grease. He's been battling the tension between us, trying to encourage a fragile peace in the kitchen. “We don’t have many meals together, Baz _—_ you should enjoy it. That was a long night for you.”

I spare him a glance as I abandon the middleman, dipping my strip of bacon straight into the butter dish. Baz groans and sinks further into his chair. I watch him, pretending not to be intensely interested in his midnight activities. Baz glares at Shepard for a long moment, then goes back to picking the crust off his bread roll. (He’s only on his second.)

_Must be hard work, chewing down hearts. All that gorging_ _—_ _it's enough to put a decent chap off his butter._ Do the pretty hearts taste better? I can't imagine anything tasting better than bacon. But there’s got to be a reason the wizard’s a cannibal, right?

My tail isn’t into all this negative atmosphere I’m cultivating. It shoves another scrap of meat into my mouth, then taps Baz on the shoulder.

“Leave off,” he snarls, producing his wand from his trousers. (I feel his legs shift under the table, knocking against mine.) (You’d think he’d be able to afford a bigger table.)

_Go on_. _Throw a curse at me, see which scale it bounces off first._

He invades my personal space, and I’m too overcome by the smell of cedar and wild to fight him off. (The perfumed bastard, using his wiles on me.) For a second I think he’s going to cast a spell, but then he’s reaching for my hand and taking it in his.

It’s not like the other day, when he pulled me into the sky. I can’t remember what my fingers felt like before the scales.

He doesn’t say anything clever or cruel. He runs his long fingers over my hand, stopping at the shrivelled, black scale I've been picking at. Blood has dried to a scab around its base, and I'm still no closer to pulling it free. “What’s this?” he asks, raising that damned eyebrow. (I _refuse_ to get used to that.)

At least he's not still angry with me about the butter. I don't want him to be angry with me at all, really. I just want him to _help_ me.

“I don’t know. I can't get rid of it. That idiot _**the king of the goats**_ said I was shabby, right before he _**creamed my whey**_ _._ ” I huff. “Tell me who Chaz is. This is his fault.”

Baz doesn’t answer. He stares at the scale thoughtfully, then rests the tip of his wand against it and says, _**“Show me your true colours.”**_

There's a weird sensation of loss and relief as the scale pulls free of my hand, fluttering in the air between our faces. He snatches it with two fingers and gives it a royally dark look.

“ _Is that what I think it is?”_ Calcifer calls from the hearth.

“Regrettably,” Baz replies, pressing his wand against the scale and pinning it to the table. It kicks and sputters, then collapses into ash. Baz bends his lips to the exposed wood and blows until there's nothing left but two holes burnt through the table cloth, scorching the surface.

The mark reminds me of fangs. Bite marks. Without thinking, I raise my hand to my neck. Baz's eyes narrow again as he leans in closer to look.

“Are those teeth marks, Snow? You ought to know better than to antagonise predators.”

If he keeps raising his eyebrow like that, he's going to have horrible forehead wrinkles, and I'll have no bloody sympathy for him.

My tail, which (who?) seems to temporarily be on my side, prods him until he returns to his side of the table. I touch the skin where the Wraith nipped me, feeling shallow grooves in my skin. “When...when _it_ happened, he _—_ the...” I huff. I _can_ talk about the Wraith, but I can't come right out and say he cursed me _—_ if I try, I'll start composing epic verse about Baz's eyelashes, or something equally embarrassing. “I was...”

“ _Don't torture the boy,”_ the fire says, spitting with amusement. _“He came bearing a love bite, what more do you need to know? Cursed by the Wraith of the Waste, and he can't speak a word of it. When he first got here there was an awful lot of nonsense about cheese.”_

Shepard drums his fingers on the table and starts stacking our greasy plates into a pile. “That's why you thought this was the Wraith's place. You were looking for him.”

I nod, worried my plan doesn't sound all that bright now that it's out there, existing in our communal space. As Shepard takes the plates away, Baz brings his wand (ivory, with leather wrapped around one end) down once more to touch the bite mark. He mutters a spell _—_ _ **“Out, out damn spot!”**_ _—_ and when he pulls away, the table is clear.

I experience a rush of extreme, foolish hope, raising my hand to my face. _My curse is gone. It has to be._

It isn't.

I try not to look too disappointed as my fingers slip away. Baz is still squinting at me, preoccupied with the dents on my neck.

“Has it been spreading? You must tell me if you feel a sudden urge to drain the blood of the living. Or if the scales should continue to reach, ah... _new_ _locations_.”

“Pardon?” I splutter, feeling wildly exposed. _Don't go red. Do not fucking do it! He’ll know about the toilet debacle._ “No. I’m not a vampire. And it _was_ spreading, but _—_ do you mean _right now_?”

Baz rolls his eyes and points to the charred patch of table. “Removing the love bite won't reverse the curse, but it ought to stop the spell from spreading further.”

“Oh. Great. Thank fuck for that. I mean, the vital parts, you know _—_ it’s all _…_ _intact._ ”

Another weary eye-roll. (He really puts his whole face into it.) “That is more than I could ever want to know, in this lifetime and the next. You are _most_ welcome. Calcifer, be a dear wretched thing and move the castle fifty miles east of the city.”

“ _Excuse me? Do you want me to die of exhaustion today, you hideous ingrate?”_

“Are you not up for the task, my once and future nemesis?”

If a fire can sound offended, then that's what I must be hearing. Calcifer hisses and spits.

“ _Fifty miles east! Keep your bath brief this evening, Basil. Wouldn't want the water running cold as it touches your toes.”_

East! I don't know much about the Waste (obviously, seeing as I managed to miss it completely), but I know it's not _east_ of the city.

Baz fixes the fireplace with a cold stare. “Don't threaten my baths, Calcifer.”

“ _Don’t make unreasonable demands of me, Basil.”_

_Basil._

Is that what Baz is short for? I was expecting it to be Barry or Barnaby, or maybe Barrington. Basil is…surprisingly normal. (It suits him.) Maybe I should call him Barrington, just to wind him up.

Calcifer sighs. (Or sizzles. I'm not sure which words apply to a personified fire, if I’m honest.) _“What did the love bite say? More poetry badly translated from Latin? The Wraith sorely needs to modernise.”_

Baz is blushing. My face is red, too, though now it's more because I'm overheating. (And a bit pissed off. Like, does this mean I’ve been used as a glorified messenger pigeon between this glittery prat and his highly unpleasant boyfriend? Fuck that.) (I mean, Baz is a lot, but surely he can do better than the _Wraith_.)

He stands up. Clears his throat. Very deliberately does not look at me.

Then he gives a sneer for the ages and recites the Wraith's message.

“ _ **You who swallowed a falling star,  
o' heartless man,  
your heart will soon be mine.”**_

“ _Ah, a classic,”_ Calcifer sighs, “ _straight from the scorned lovers’ compendium._ _And who said romance was undead?”_

Baz groans, and Shepard starts listing his favourite romantic curses, in ascending order of dire consequence. I frown, wary of the wizard as he hovers over the table, watching where the bite marks used to be.

“His spell didn't rhyme.”

Baz curls his lip and swats me with a teaspoon as he passes. “Magic doesn't have to rhyme, darling dragon.”

_Darling dragon_? I splutter into the dregs of my tea, eyes transfixed by the patch of skin on my hand where the black scale used to be. It's _my_ skin, tawny and freckled from the sun. _It's me._

_I'm still in here, under the rough._

“What's this about, anyway?” I growl, trying to stand and knocking over the chair, which upsets Summer more than I'd meant to. (She barks at me and slobbers on my shoe until I upright the chair.) “Get a lot of these love letters, do you?”

Baz ignores me, piling dishes in the sink and whispering something snide to Shepard. The latter smiles, ducking his head and starting off up the spiral staircase. (He does pause halfway to give me a hearty wave. How does he get anything _done_ , being this bloody amenable?)

“ _I'd say we're on a bi-monthly love bite schedule,”_ Calcifer muses. I watch his maw widen as Baz scrapes bacon rinds into the fire. _“The Wraith used to send one every other day, but it's getting harder for him to track down the castle. I think he's losing his touch.”_

_And then he found me,_ I think bitterly.

“ _And then he found you,”_ Calcifer sparks. _“He does_ know _, doesn't he, Basil? You had the heart to tell him the truth, at some point or other?”_ The fire cackles darkly. I wonder if all demons find themselves this amusing.

“He was always aware of the truth,” Baz says quietly.

And I’m left wondering what truth he’s talking about.

I pace the width of the kitchen, fully aware I'd look much more imposing if I didn't have to keep stepping over dog-eared books, every few seconds. (And an actual dog, for that matter.) “Who is the Wraith to you?”

Baz pouts, scrubbing the frying pan with a ragged cloth. He’s not going to get much grease out with that sorry old thing, but I’m not about to volunteer for cleaning duty. It’s nice to have a day off, actually _—_ Gareth always makes me do the washing up at the farm _._ “I believe we’ve had this discussion before. How things don’t necessarily affect you or your behaviour.”

“I wouldn’t call it a discussion. Rather you say things, and I ask questions which you then fail to answer.”

“ _Do you two know each other?”_ Calcifer asks, piping down as Baz turns his dark profile the fire’s way. I watch the rhythm of his wrist as he scrubs, wipes, and scrubs again. If he keeps going he’ll take a layer clean off the pan.

“I have no idea why a passing vampire decided to curse you.”

“ _A passing vampire_ _—_ bullshit! He thought I knew _you._ ”

I’m getting to him. He’s pressing down harder with the cloth, knuckles white.

I think I want an argument. I want to see him angry. And maybe if I go off, I’ll be able to think clearly afterwards. Scrub my emotions away, like he’s scrubbing at the grease.

“I don’t know if you remember, but the last time we met I didn’t have a tail. I _shouldn’t_ have a tail, or wings, or who-knows-what growing all over my arse, but I do!”

“That is hardly my fault.”

Smoke gathers in my chest. I cough against my hand, soot speckling my fingers. He throws the dirty cloth in the sink and turns to face me. I don’t know which of us is angrier, and I don’t much care. Calcifer swivels on his log, surveying the looming disaster.

“ _Gentlemen, if you could avoid complete destruction of the castle, it would be greatly appreciated.”_

“I don’t control Lamb _—_ nor do I decide who he does and doesn’t curse.”

“ _Ah, a lover’s spat.”_

“Hardly,” Baz scoffs, at the exact same time I snarl, _n_ _o fucking chance._ “Calm down,” he snaps, pulling his wand out and levelling it at me again. “If you set my castle alight, I will end you.”

I try to choke down the burn. (It’s in my throat, _licking_ at me.)

“Lamb? Is that his real name or a bad joke? You have to _help_ me. Take me to him.”

“No.”

“ _Please_.”

“I cannot help you.” His tongue flicks out. (Does he do that when he’s nervous?) “I’ve things to do.”

“ _Things to do?”_ And the fire does come then _—_ because I can’t help it, because I have no control, because I’m an _animal_. It burns through my throat _—_ a small, reedy flame, but fire all the same _—_ and catches a corner of the table cloth. Baz races to my side with his wand, a spell tumbling rapidly from his mouth: _**“As dull as dishwater!”**_

The flames die instantly, flattened by a sudden rush of cold, soapy water spilling from his outstretched hand. I’m scratching at my throat, because oh fuck does it ever _burn_ , and then Baz is crouching in front of me, casting again.

_Well, then._

_Is this how he finishes me off?_

“ _ **Kiss it better.”**_

He leans up and kisses my throat—a moment, then he’s gone. His lips are cold.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers.

I can’t manage anything as complicated as _words_ right now, so I shake my head. I half expect him to shout at me for setting fire to his dinner table, but he staggers into one of the wooden chairs instead. I got a good look at his eyes just now, before he kissed me _—_ he’s so _tired_.

Without meaning to, I’ve defeated the great wizard Pitch.

I don’t feel very good about it.

“I knew Lamb, for a time.” He starts to remove the many rings from his fingers _—_ silver and gold, shining in Calcifer's glow. “I believed we shared certain ideas. I was, however, sorely mistaken.” He tips his head back, and I can see the hollows under his eyes where the long night took its payment. “And so I did what any self-respecting sorcerer would do. I ran.”

My tail darts out and prods him in the hip. He winces and rubs at himself.

“Must you insist on bruising every inch of me? You've already abused my furniture enough. I suppose I'm the next viable target.”

“Sorry. It's the tail _—_ it doesn't listen to me. Is this...so am I a scorned-lover-revenge-cursing?” I'm hugging my sides, claws pinching into my waist, and all I can think for no reason at all is how badly I want him to say _no_.

“No,” he says.

Oh. Well. Good.

“He's a _vampire_ ,” Baz sneers, pulling his earrings off and vanishing them inside a pocket. “I am _not_ attracted to vampires. Also, he’s a myth, and they’re notoriously high maintenance. It would never work between us.”

I feel like making a clever comment about how _he's_ clearly high maintenance (and expensive, judging by all that jewellery), but my brain's too preoccupied with what Baz might be attracted to, if not vampires.

It bothers me that Lamb’s obviously attracted to Baz. Enough to send him dodgy love poems by dragon proxy, at least. I bite my tongue. ( _Again_ with the fangs.) (I have to stem the blood with my sleeve and hope none of the magickal beings in the room notice how much of a fucking disaster I am.)

“Where does he live?” I ask. Baz has peeled himself off the chair and is sweeping out Calcifer's grate, distributing fresh wood. “I need him to...to _**compose**_ my _**epic ballad**_.” (I mean, on the one hand I'm glad it's not cheese, but on the other hand _—_ _why_?)

Baz sneers. “And I am sure it would be a ballad for the ages, given your varied vocabulary. However, I cannot tell you where the Wraith resides _—_ we were hardly on close terms, before I broke off our acquaintanceship. I would rather uproot my castle and flee the hillside than risk an encounter.” He hesitates, turning away from me. “Which is exactly what I’m doing.”

Smoke and the tang of metal, hot in my throat. I have to splutter my next words to get them out at all. “Did you eat Lamb’s heart? Is that why he's chasing you?”

Baz's lips quiver, and then his expression is, once again, unreadable. He bends down to untie the laces on his boots, allowing his hair to tumble and conveniently hide his face.

“You know nothing of hearts.”

I push out my chin. “I know you eat them.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Everyone knows that. The whole city talks about it. There's a kingdom-wide warning out against you _—_ you've been deemed a public health hazard, owing to the unwelcome organ removal. Do they taste good? Is that why you spend all night stealing them?”

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m jealous. Or being motherly. (I don’t know which would be worse.)

Baz sneers and unhooks a necklace _—_ a delicate silver teapot, at the end of a long chain. It's unexpectedly sweet, and for a moment I'm too surprised to be bitter. “You're quite right, Snow. In fact, hearts taste exactly like bacon. That’s why I can’t get enough of them.” He's finished removing his jewellery and stands before me, plain and weary. “Though I wouldn't be concerned for your own. I'm quite full, and I’ve not much taste for butter.” I bite back a retort as he addresses the fireplace. “Calcifer, I don't hear the castle moving.”

“ _Your bath's not ready. Go upstairs and turn the tap on—that should aid in the process. I'll move the castle after you've finished draining me of my hot water supply.”_

Baz scowls and moves towards the staircase, rolling up his sleeves. “Why is it I find myself constantly surrounded by ill-mannered creatures? I am sorry to disappoint you, Snow, but I cannot take you to the Waste. Feel free to jump out of a moving castle _—_ see how far that gets you. Perhaps you’ll find you can fly, and a part of you that isn't your mouth will finally be put to good use.”

Calcifer crackles briskly. _“He'll do no flying or jumping or other such things. He's already promised to stay here and help me with my curse.”_

I don't remember making any such promises, but alright. If it’s the only way of getting any sort of help around here, I’ll do it. I return Baz's scowl with interest, inwardly hoping there’ll be some hot water left afterwards so I can have a bath, too. (We are far beyond the land of _in dire need._ I've lost the ability to smell myself, it's that bad.)

“Calcifer, I didn't know you had it in you.” He's posed on the stairs, one elegant hand draped over the bannister, and I swear I don't know if I want to knock him out or knock him over. (And do what, exactly?) (See, this is my problem. I never think far enough ahead.)

There's something between Baz and Calcifer I don't understand. A bond. They're not... _friends_ , exactly. But this is definitely more than a standard employer-employee relationship. It’s more than what me and Ebb had. More than me and Penny, even. Actually, Calcifer looks at Baz the way Penny looks at me sometimes, when she's about to rip the truth from me.

Baz opens his mouth to say something else (probably an insult, let’s be honest), but then there's a loud knock at the door, and the dial begins spinning furiously. Summer wakes up enough to start barking, and Shepard comes galloping down the stairs two at a time, an eager grin on his face.

“I'll get it!”

“Thank you, Shepard.” Baz is on his haunches, peering through gaps in the bannister, as if the door’s an enemy.

“ _Royal city,”_ Calcifer says.

“Is my hot water ready?”

“ _Turn on the tap and you’ll find out.”_

“You’re a despicable nuisance.”

“ _And you’re the vainest abomination I know. Are your magic potions lined up nice and neat?”_

His _potions…?_

I frown up the stairs after Baz's retreating back. He’s crawling, glancing back unhappily at the door, relieving himself of garments of clothing as he goes. This is no time to be watching a wizard undress _—_ _so many_ _layers_ _, fucking hell_ _—_ he disappears from view, hopping out of one tall boot as he rounds the stairs' first spiral, somehow managing not to trip and fall backwards. (No way would I have managed it half as gracefully.)

Shepard adjusts his glasses and pulls the door open with a flourish. I dive into a pile of books, creasing assorted leather spines and cracking my own. Hopefully the person outside won't see me _—_ last thing I need is an unhappy lynch mob, hunting me down. (Or worse, a knight. I've read the stories _—_ raging opportunists, the lot of them.)

“Good morning!” comes a young girl's sing-song voice. I can only think that the solid diet of bacon rolls is the reason all of these people are so cheerful. “Sorry to drop by this early, but I was hoping my grandfather's remedy would be ready?”

“Of course, come on in!”

I peer out from behind a wobbly stack of hardbacks as the girl comes into view, hair wrapped in a haze of ribbon, which Penny tells me is very fashionable in the capital. (I think she looks like a pin cushion, but who am I to judge.) (She'd probably say I look like a handbag before it's gone into production.)

There's sunlight and all sorts of sounds from the other side of the door _—_ motor cars, laughter, birdsong, and from somewhere far off, the insistent honking of a horn. I want to look but I've fallen awkwardly, and must instead do battle with a vicious book about carnivorous plants.

Shepard speed-walks through the door next to the staircase, and I can hear him sliding open drawers, humming to himself. “Aha!” he says, trotting back into the room. “Ready to go, my friend _—_ will you need another dose next week?”

“Yes please,” the girl squeaks, tucking a paper bag inside her satchel. “Here's your coin.” Shepard says thank you far too many times to count, and is holding the door open to see her out, when she stops and fishes into her bag again. “Wait! The postman said to give you this. He's been leaving them at the end of the path but they haven't been collected.”

“Thank you! That's kind of you.”

“It's for the wizard Watford.”

“Wonderful! Thanks so much. I’ll let him know.”

Is it just me, or is Shepard's voice strained?

More importantly: _Who is t_ _he wizard Watford?_

Then the girl's gone and the door is closing and he's hopping up the stone steps, whistling. We both follow the dial as the arrow ticks back to the cloud. I see him tucking an envelope into his back pocket _—_ before it disappears, I spy letters formed in a steady, unfussy hand: _Charles Watford_.

_Charles. Chaz._

I heave, doubled over and desperate to stop the fire from racing along my throat.

_He lied to my face! To my_ tail _!_

“Where was that?” I ask rudely, sending a stack of texts about _Linear Geography_ flying in all directions. “That wasn't the hillside.” I feel my anger shrivelling as I look into Shepard's eyes. (He's _too_ earnest.) (Why hasn't this place broken him yet?)

Shepard holds up his hands and goes back into the room by the stairs, adding his coin to a clinking pile. When he returns, his pockets are empty. “You noticed the door's a little different, right? Baz spelled it to open on our different shop fronts.”

“Shop fronts...?”

“Oh yes,” he continues. “We've got four of them. It's good to diversify, in case the markets change. Anyway, we've got four locations and do the same trade in each one _—_ obviously _that_ door, being the royal city, is a lot busier than the others. But we don't do too badly in your city, or down in the village.” He hesitates, and maybe he hopes I didn't notice the letter.

But I did.

“That customer,” I start, doing my best to pick up the toppled books. “She gave you something.”

“Sure,” Shepard agrees, helping me out of the corner I've blockaded myself into.

“An envelope.”

“That’s right. We get a lot of letters _—_ or Baz does, being the qualified wizard of the house.”

_The qualified wizard. What, is there some sort of school for wizards? A magickal uni? Stupid idea.  
_

I simmer, skin pricking with heat. I'm interested to see if Shepard tries to worm his way out of my next question. Maybe he's learning that part of Baz's trade, too.

“Who was the envelope addressed to?” It’s dead nosy of me to ask, but I’m running out of patience. (And I didn’t have a lot to begin with.)

He wants to lie. He really does; I can see his eyes straining behind his glasses. But the thing I've noticed about Shepard is that he's too helpful. He's out here in this velvet-lined coffin of a hell-mansion, genuinely believing in the cause.

“Charles Watford,” he says, trusting in the truth.

“Charles Watford,” I repeat, ready to hit something.

_Fucking Chaz._ I knew it.

“It's one of the wizard's names. So we can trade in different places without raising too many eyebrows.”

_Of course. He raises his own eyebrows more than enough_.

I finish stacking the books, but my tail decides to knock them over again. “Bastard,” I mutter. “Not you,” I add, in case Shepard gets the wrong end of the stick. ( _Tail_.) “He said there was no one here named Chaz.”

“Well, Baz _is_ his real name, so...” Shepard scratches his head and crosses to the fireplace. I’m definitely being an arsehole and I know I should reign it in.

But the dragon.

The dragon wants to _burn_.

“Baz Pitch.”

“Right,” he says carefully. “And then there's Chaz Watford, Daz Pendragon, and Jaz-”

“ _You fucking_ what _?”_

Shepard doesn’t finish the third name. Honestly, I don’t want to hear it.

_Chaz, Daz, Jaz._

Part of me knows it makes sense. He is _just_ the right amount of dramatic to go around calling himself _Daz Pendragon._

“ _Don't hold it against him,”_ Calcifer wheezes, drained and dim. _“The wizard’s names make it easier for him to slip an unwanted suitor's notice._ ” The demon draws itself up to its proper height. (Which really isn't much _—_ I'm still amazed he's the one keeping this castle in operation.) _“Read the letter to me while you pass me those logs. His highness is running his bath, and I'm fading fast.”_

Shepard goes to retrieve the envelope while I feed wood into the fire. There isn’t much left. (Couldn’t the great wizard Watford design a self-sufficient castle? Or is that more the wizard Pendragon’s area?) Calcifer sighs and snaps gratefully.

“ _Thanks, kid. You can’t ever let me run out, do you hear? This whole place stops dead if I do.”_

There's a loud rumbling beneath our feet, and I slip to my knees on the stones. Summer comes wobbling over, whining quietly, and crawls into my lap. “What's happening?” I ask, just as Calcifer's eyes spark blue.

“He's waking up the castle,” Shepard says, joining me on the floor. “Really something, huh? We'll get up to travelling speed in half an hour or so.”

It feels like the world's come alive beneath me.

_Castles don't move._

_But then, sometimes they do._

“Calcifer,” I gasp. “You're doing this?”

Two orange, ashen eyes swivel to find mine. _“Yes. You're welcome.”_

“You're incredible.”

Calcifer burns bright-white for a moment, then settles. _“Well, aren't you a charming creature?”_

I smirk, shifting my tongue over the points of my fangs. “Apparently.”

Shepard clears his throat and opens the envelope, smoothing the page against the stone floor.

  
  


“ _To the esteemed wizard Charles Watford,_

_You are hereby invited to attend an assembly with his excellence The Mage,  
to be held in the topmost room of the Weeping Tower on this Friday,  
as the morning turns to afternoon._

_You are required to bring with you all of your wits, but you need not bring your wand.  
The Mage is looking forward to meeting with the kingdom's finest  
witches and wizards in order to discuss our continuing war efforts._

_In mild consideration of the weak,  
And as ever, looking forward to your timely response,  
The Office of the Mage.”_

  
  


Above our heads comes a loud splash and what sounds very much like a cry of despair. Summer lets out a long, shaking howl in sympathy.

“Sounds like he heard you,” I mutter.

“ _Well, he does have the ears of a bat._ ” Calcifer cackles to himself. _“The Mage has been sending out these invitations for weeks. Naturally, Basil has ended up with a book’s worth of them under different names.”_

I shake my head. “Well, what did he expect? Most people get by perfectly well with one name. He can't expect life to be simple, if he larks about pretending to be four people.”

Chaz Watford. _Really?_

Shepard screws up the invitation and tosses it into the fire, where Calcifer makes quick work of it. “We're low on camomile tea, so...” He sighs, fluffing Summer’s frizzy ears. “Maybe we don’t need to mention the letter? Baz is…stressed, lately.”

_He’s_ stressed? He’s not the one turning into a walking fossil. The rage grips me again, but I don’t want to take it out on Shepard.

So I’m going upstairs to shout at Baz, instead. Thus far, my questions have all been fair, but I haven't seen a single fair answer.

“Simon! Don’t you want tea to wash down all that bacon?”

“ _Sod the tea,”_ I snarl, and hope nobody offers a second time. (It’d be full-on _lunacy_ to turn a cup of tea down twice.)

“He’ll be in the bath at least another hour.”

“Another _hour_? What’s he cleaning up in there, his reputation?”

As I stumble up the stairs, marring the navy blue wallpaper with scratch marks from my clumsy wings, I realise I don’t actually know where I’m going. This is my first time beyond the kitchen _—_ which one of these doors is guarding the bathroom? There are tall, stone archways lining the upstairs hall, and I’m about to go barging through each one, when I notice the door on my left is letting light escape around its edges. And not only light _—_ _steam_.

I scowl, pushing my shoulder against the door, not paying the slightest bit of mind to the many horrors that might be waiting on the other side.

_Baz. An evil wizard, disrobed. A slick, soapy nightmare who’s plotting my downfall._

Thankfully, when I get in there, he's just lying in the bath.

Oh fuck. Well.

_Baz_ is in the _bath_.

I’ve taken a few baths in my time, so I know what the basic requirements are. (Less clothes, more soap.) (Suds optional but most welcome.) Still, I’m here in the doorway with my hands on my hips, surely looking as gloriously indignant as I feel, smelling like a pit of manure. I’m not doing what _he’d_ do, if he were me _—_ running off and hiding on the other side of the kingdom, I mean _—_ instead, I’m standing my ground.

I’m picking a fight with a wet, prune-fingered wizard, and I’m trying to keep my eyes above-water, because I’m pretty sure we’re not on get-a-load-of-my-bare-chest terms, yet.

“Chaz,” I say, “Chaz Watford. Daz Pendragon _—_ and _don’t_ think I didn’t pick up on the dragon part, you git _—_ and what was the last one? _Jaz Unicorn_?”

Baz opens one eye and looks at me from beneath his long, judgmental lashes.

“Lavande.”

“What?”

“ _Lavande_. Not Jaz _Unicorn,_ you uncultured swine.”

“Fine. Not important. The point is you deny the existence of Chaz, but he’s _real_ _—_ there’s a letter downstairs with his fucking name on it, inviting him to a meeting with the Mage.” I breathe. “Well, it’s not downstairs anymore. Calcifer ate it. But we all know what it said!”

Baz’s face is hazy behind a swirl of perfumed steam, but I’d be able to spot that sneer a mile off. “Is this really worth interrupting my bath, Snow? How uncouth.”

I growl and my tail lashes out, sending bottles of sparkly liquids and bars of soap skidding across the floor. Before I can hide behind the toilet or assess my other immediate options for personal safety, Baz is kneeling up in the water, brandishing his wand. (His actual wand, that's not a metaphor.) (Apparently he takes his wand to the bathroom with him.)

“ _ **Spick and span!”**_

“ _ **Line up in an orderly fashion!”**_

He's casting at his toppled bottles of shampoo, and what I can only assume are various exotic conditioners. The bottles huddle up along the rim of the bath, and he splashes over to them, checking the labels. I can only read a few from where I’m crouched. (Behind the linen basket, where I belong.)

_Cedar’s tears, A shudder of moth wings, High wind’s shiver, The forest’s kiss_

His fingers race over each one, inspecting them for cracks.

“Sorry,” I mutter, wrapping my tail around my wrist. (Not that it'll stop its marauding for long.)

Baz sighs and slumps back into the water. (It’s all different colours _—_ pastel pink and orange and green and blue _,_ soft and shiny like pearls.) (Not nearly enough bubbles for my liking. You can see right through to the bottom of the bath.) (Probably shouldn’t have noticed that, but it’s too late now.) Baz’s chest is sunken, with black lines snaking out from a cluster on the left and fading into the rest of him. He sees me looking and sinks down until his chin touches the water.

“What do you want? You’re an apocalypse on two legs, Snow.”

“Just _—_ _why_? Why are there four of you? Why have you given fake names to the Wraith and the Mage? And the letter…he’s inviting you to the royal city to talk about the _war?_ Baz, that’s _—_ that’s…” I remember what the people in the city were saying, on the last normal day of my life. “You’re fighting for him. You’re a _weapon_.”

He glares up at me, fingernails tapping on the porcelain. “What else am I, Snow? Evil? _Wrong?”_ He snorts and pushes his head under the water, soaking his hair. (When he comes back up it’s shimmery.) (Of course he’s bathing in fucking _glitter._ ) “Ah, to be judged on my morals by a dragon.”

I growl and a little bit of fire leaks out. “I am _not_ a dragon.”

“No, clearly not.”

“So what’s your clever plan, then? Fight for the Mage under four different names? You must really like the idea of killing. I bet that's why you were in the city _—_ you were following the parade, gathering inspiration.”

“ _No,”_ he seethes. His knees break the water and I try to decide if being naked in the bath means he’s even remotely vulnerable, or if it’s just making him even more powerful. He’s got his wand, so I probably wouldn’t stand a chance, even like this. “Perhaps the manner in which I am ignoring his letters might alert you to that fact. I would _never_ fight for the Mage.”

We stare at each other. After a few seconds my eyes start burning and I have to look away. (Another staring competition lost. I’m a wreck.)

“All those letters,” I say, moving away from the wall. “They’ll catch up to you. The Mage will find out they’re your names.”

His forehead creases. “I am aware of that. Well, let him find me.” He moves again, reaching for one of the bottles. There must be a hundred or more. The one he wants now is a powder, sky blue in colour. _A restful place in time._ “I didn’t give the Wraith my true name, Snow, because I didn’t trust him. I was right not to, though it took me far too long to realise. I can’t trust anyone.” He fills his palm with powder, and smooths it over his chest. “He is chasing me because he wants my heart.”

My tail curls itself into a question mark. “Your… _your_ heart?”

“Yes.” He settles back again, watching the ceiling. “A wizard’s heart is his magic, Snow. I would never give mine to the Wraith or any other of his kind.” He smiles then, hand trailing down his chest to where the black lines disappear into the shimmering water. “Though if you believe the hearsay, I hardly have a heart to give. I can only take.”

I notice his face change, and all I see is unhappiness.

“What’s wrong with your skin, Baz?”

He looks down at the tangled black lines, pulsing and easing, then up at me. He’s blank again, like he was when he first walked in this morning, staring into the fire. “Nothing.”

“Alright,” I say, taking a step towards the bath. “Well, you know I don't believe you. So. Stop lying.”

“It’s _nothing_. The bath will make it better. I need to soak.”

His eyes are closing again. Fuck if I'm going to stand here and watch a wizard drown in his own bathtub _—_ I fall to my knees and hang over the edge, tail diving in without any consideration for whose hot water it is. I reach for him, one hand hooking under his arm and the other brushing his chest, and then _—_

And then I don't know why, but I touch him there, in the dip where the black lines meet. (Where his heart should be.) For a moment I swear my hand looks different under the water _—_ free of scales, like it used to be, when I was me.

Then I'm not thinking anything because I'm _pushing_ , and whatever I have in me to give is moving down my arm and along my hand and through my fingers into Baz.

Heat.

Power.

(Magic?)

His eyes shoot open and his arms are up, out of the water and around the back of my neck.

“ _You're burning me."  
_

I fall back, scrabbling away on my arse like a fool as the water bubbles and boils.

That’s not right. That shouldn't be happening. Oh _fuck_.

“I'm sorry!” I gasp. “I didn't _—_ _what_ _—_ ”

Baz leaps up and I avert my eyes. (If we're not on bare-chest terms yet, we're definitely not on anything-below-the-waist terms, either.) The water's steaming around his knees, and I _know_ , I know that was me, but _—_

But how could it be?

I'm not magic. I make _cheese_.

Gradually, he lowers himself down into the swirling colours, gingerly dipping an elbow, and then the length of his arm. Eventually _(thankfully)_ the rest of him follows.

“Are you trying to cook me, Snow? I’d have thought you were full, after that horrifying display at the table.”

I turn my arm to inspect it, but whatever I saw in the water was only wishful thinking. I'm still scaly and distinctly snake-like. “Not on purpose. Sorry. I don't know how that happened. I _—_ I _pushed_ , and...”

“I know,” he says quietly, observing me through the steam. “And I'm marginally grateful. The water _was_ getting rather tepid, and I'm certainly more awake now.” He sits up, and I can't help but spare a glance downwards. He's practically asking for it.

Then I see what he wants to show me.

The black lines on his chest are still there, but they're much fainter now, and they don't reach as far.

“Magic. Not yours, admittedly _—_ a remnant of the Wraith's curse _—_ but magic, all the same.” He sighs and sinks until he's all perfumed steam and what I suspect is regret. “I can't break your curse. Only the caster can remove a spell like that completely. There may, however, be other ways for me to help you. Temporary fixes. I promise to find those ways.”

I watch him marinating in his colours and shine, and I feel the fury slip away, burnt up by the heat.

“Yeah. Alright. That'd be great. Truce?”

He smirks and lets his eyes fall closed once more.

“Truce. Now, may I enjoy my bath in peace, or do you wish to scald the rest of me?”

I back out of the bathroom, gently closing the door. I can smell his shampoo and soap on my damp arm _—_ wood and trees and citrus. I've got my hand pressed to my face so I can breathe it in, when I notice Shepard across the hall, standing in an arched doorway with the wind at his back.

“Simon, we're moving! Want to see?”

I do, I think. I do want to see a castle move.

I step through the door and let the wind hassle my hair. Shepard's holding onto his glasses for dear life with Summer between his legs, paws wrapped around an ankle. I laugh, exhilarated, and hold on to the railing.

Wizards and bath water. Curses and scales. Wings I don't want and an ill-mannered tail. (Fuck, why did that have to rhyme? _Ugh._ )

All of it is far away, for the moment.

I don't have to think.

_Castles can't move. People can't fly. I am not a dragon._

I'm taking in the view, and I'm starting to wonder how much of it is true.

(Stop. Fucking. Rhyming.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


I lean over the balcony, letting my feet kick out behind me until all that's holding me up is my own free will. (And my wings.) (Maybe I _could_ fly, if I tried.) Shepard's next to me, laughing, and I'm laughing too, watching hills pass by as the castle uproots itself and begins _walking_ through the countryside. _Nothing to see here. Just your local gargoyle-infested manor house, off for a ramble in the hills._

“This is strange,” I say. _This is brilliant_ , I think.

The castle isn't moving at a great speed, but it's enough to make the wind kick up, my curls flying every way they can. I close my eyes and push into it, and for a moment I'm nowhere at all.

I'm _here._

Alive, windswept, stomach full of grease and bacon.

“He did this?” I ask. _He made this by himself?_

What I like most about Shepard is how, so far, he hasn't once looked at me like I'm a monster. He sees what's there and accepts it. (I'm pretty sure he'd paint a fucking watercolour of me, if I let him.)

“This is Baz's spellwork. He was a great wizard, you know, in his hometown. He built the castle and enchanted it so that Calcifer can move it, whenever he asks. Whenever it's time.”

_Whenever it's time._

“Calcifer's the engine,” I say above the whip of the wind. Below, the castle's legs snake out as they drag us onward, a mix of bricks and roots and rubble. It should make a terrific racket, but all things considered, it's quiet.

“Oh yeah, he's the heart of the whole operation,” Shepard says, holding on to Summer as a sudden rush of wind damn near sends us over the railing.

The castle's rolling down a hillside, legs skipping over flowers and crushing into patches of brush and bracken. Far off, miles further than I've ever been, I can see the flat blue line of open water, a circle of gulls hovering in the sky above. _Sky blue_ , I think.

“The sea.” I try not to sound _too_ excited. “We're going to the sea?”

Shepard tells me there's a fishing village by the coast where the wizard Lavande keeps his shop. “We usually camp out in the dunes, away from the beach. If anyone stumbles upon us, we pretend to be a boarded-up bed and breakfast.” He asks me if I'd like to go into the village with him to stock up on firewood and food. I think I would.

I think I'd like to see the sea.

I don't know if I've ever been so impressed with anything in my life. I think about my small existence on the farm, sewing goat faces onto bags. Can I really go back to that, once this is done? Now that I've seen how a castle can move?

But I have to go back. I know that. It’s who I am, what I was made for. If I stay away too long, who knows what destruction Gareth will cause.

I force my aching legs into a run, passing the still-occupied bathroom and taking the stairs three at a time. (My tail almost trips me, but I manage to out-thwart it and not fall to my death.) I'm back in the kitchen, crashing to my knees in front of the hearth, more alive than I have been lately.

“Calcifer!”

The fire eyes me warily.

“ _Every inch of ash and firelight, kid.”_

“You are an A-plus plus fire demon, did you know?”

Calcifer sparks blue and green, shooting up to the ceiling before dying down again. There's more to him now, like he's invigorated. Like he's more alive. I grin. (And I don't even care how my fangs are digging into my lip.)

“ _You've got a lot of energy, kid. The dog could learn a thing or two from you.”_

Summer hops down the stairs, rolling her eyes. (She's good at that.)

“ _Why don't you lie down and get some rest? I can leech off you to keep up the pace.”_

I think he's talking about how hot I am _—_ I've been burning up since breakfast. Sleep doesn't sound terrible. (Is it ever?) I cross to where the wizard left his cloak this morning, and even though it's probably a bad idea, drag it over to the fireplace. I realise with an ache that I must have lost Ebb's coat in the hills when I was chasing the runaway dog.

I lie down on my front with my wings trapped under the fabric, tail flicking idly by my legs. I have it in my head that I'm letting myself down, because there's so much further still to go.

But sleep _—_ that wouldn't be the worst use of my time. The Wraith will continue to exist (unfortunately), and I can go after him when I'm awake and rested. ( _Lamb.)_ Baz said he'll find a way to help. (Is he still in the bath? He wants to get out before his skin goes all wrinkly.)

When I finally drift off, I'm thinking about goats. Has Gareth managed the morning without me? Has he sent my letter to Penny? If I went back up to the balcony and looked out, I might see a plume of smoke where the farm used to be. _And so ends Gareth, who could not handle the goat stuff, after all._

I push my face into the folds of the cloak, breathing in cedar and citrus. Breathing in Baz.

I fall into a dream of flying, and I'm faster than Calcifer's castle.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When my eyes open it's dark. It's the first time in years I've woken up somewhere that isn't my bedroom. The fire has hushed down to embers, glowing blood red in the grate _—_ I stretch my arms, feeling every satisfying creak and pop, and slide another log into the tired glow.

I look around at the pressing quiet of the kitchen. We're no longer moving. Through the high window, I can see the inky black of a night sky _—_ I must have slept the whole day. Feeling stale and slow, I crack my neck and wonder if there's any hot water left.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I turn and see him, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, rubbing my neck and dragging myself to my feet. “Like sitting in the dark and watching people sleep, do you?”

The wizard smiles in the peace of the kitchen. “May I have my cloak back? Or do you claim it as payment for your curse?” He's got his jewellery on again _—_ rings on every finger, blue gems shining in his ears. As I look him over, he tucks the silver teapot charm inside his shirt.

I realise I'm still wrapped up in his cloak, and there's a bit of a scene as I struggle to pull it off without tearing it. (My wings definitely snag a hole or two.)

“Right. Shit. Sorry.”

It's hard to tell in the shadows, but I think he's smirking. From what I've seen so far, I can safely assume he's always either smirking or cocking that bloody eyebrow. (Or both.)

“Calcifer is quite taken with you. Apparently the distance we covered today was a personal record.”

I shrug and scratch the back of my hand where the black scale used to be.

“He wanted my heat. The dragon stuff, you know.”

It might be the lack of light, but his eyes look a bit watery. “Dragon stuff,” he says. He sounds empty. He takes the cloak, pulling it over his narrow shoulders. (Does this mean he's going out again?)

“Thank you for earlier.”

I scratch along my scaled arm. “What for, almost boiling you in the bath?”

He snorts. “Yes. Quite. I was right, wasn't I, back in that alleyway? You _are_ a menace.” The eyebrow lifts, right on cue. “At any rate, the bathroom is yours, should you still possess a passing fancy to be clean. I would ask you not to touch my shampoo and conditioner.”

“Baz,” I say. “Is your _—_ I mean, the black lines, are they...are you...?”

He's on his way to the door but stops to look at me, one foot poised over the edge of the topmost step. “Something to say, Snow?”

I growl and snag my tongue on a fang. “Be careful, you stuck-up git.”

Baz sneers and starts down the steps. “Calcifer was right. You _are_ a charming creature.”

I growl again, but the dial's spinning, and he's pulling the heavy wooden door open onto nothing. In the space beyond I can't see fields or moonlight, or anything that suggests where we are (or where he's going). I squint at the dial and see the star again.

“Baz. Don’t go out there.”

And if I didn't think he was incapable of much beyond arrogance and showy drama, I'd say he looked afraid.

“Enjoy your bath _—_ if Calcifer gives you trouble about the water, call him a campfire. He hates it.” I watch him play with a strand of long hair, fingers moving to trace a sparkling earring. “There’s something I'd have you know, Snow _—_ I meant what I said about the Mage.”

“You’d never fight for him.” I frown. “I don’t know, he seems dead set on recruiting you and your colleagues.”

“I appreciate you don’t approve of my avoidance tactics. But if the wizard’s names permit me my freedom, why not use them?”

I don't know what to think about that. On the one hand, who wouldn’t want to be everywhere at once? On the other hand...

_I can’t trust anyone._

I can understand when he says he wants freedom. But I'm not sure living like this, always _running_ , makes him free. His castle can move, sure _—_ but he's still trapped inside. Are you part of the world if you're watching it turn from inside a cage?

“We keep this between ourselves, you understand?” His shirt isn't fastened all the way, and beyond the dip of his collar I can see the same dark lines from before, pressing into him. They're spreading again. Whatever I accidentally did in the bath, it didn't last. “I've a certain standard of notoriety to maintain.”

“Fine,” I say, wishing he wouldn't go. “But where are you _—_ ”

“I'll come back,” he murmurs, not quite looking at me, and then he isn't there anymore.

_I'll come back._

The door slams, making everything in the kitchen shake. The dial spins, the world turns, and I'm left feeling like everything's upside down.

“ _Hot water, then?”_ Calcifer asks in a yawn that burns and ebbs. _“And there's no need for you to call me a campfire. I’ll behave.”_

“Thank you,” I say, slumping down by the hearth. “I promise not to be stewing in there for two hours.”

“ _Appreciated.”_

I curl up on one side with my arms around my knees, wondering how many dragons before me have lain like this next to fire. _A bed of flames_.

I let names run through my head, all the ones I knew before and those I know now, until they blend together and I forget which ones were ever real.


	4. Baths shouldn't hurt

Morning returns but Baz doesn't, no matter how hard I stare at the door. (I’m not staring _longingly_ or anything. It’s your bog standard, casual stare. No deeper meaning to it.)

“ _These things take time, kid,”_ Calcifer says, yawning and flickering to life in the grate. _“Sometimes he's gone two full nights before he makes it back.”_

“Makes it back from where? What's through the star door?”

If Calcifer knows, he won't tell me. Shepard's genuinely unsure when I ask him, saying only that it's _nothing good, but it must be necessary, otherwise Baz wouldn't do it_. (As if Baz doesn't do a hundred unnecessary things a day.) (He can hardly call dressing like a firework display necessary. Or finding young men in alleyways and taking them on flying walking tours of their hometown.) Apparently he goes through that door almost every night—sometimes he's back within hours, other times it's days.

I think about the black, empty nothing. I don't like the thought of him out there alone.

What he said last night about freedom...I don't think that's what this is. Hiding behind false names and doors that go nowhere.

“Have you ever tried to follow him?” I ask Shepard, as he boils water for tea. “What about the dog? She's always trying to run away. Is she that picky about the destination?” Maybe Summer ultimately chooses to stay in the castle because she knows which side her bread is buttered. _Tea in a saucer and a hot fire to lie by_ — _yes, I am willing to compromise my human dignity for this._

Shepard sets three cups and a saucer on the table, tossing used teabags into Calcifer's gaping mouth. “The dial spins as it needs to. I don't have any control over it—only Baz does, and even then, I'm not so sure. It never moves to the star for me, and I doubt it would for Summer.” He lifts her up onto her pile of books and sets tea in front of her, ruffling her ears fondly. (She doesn't try to bite _his_ fingers off, which is blatant favouritism.) “Though she _is_ quite the runaway, aren't you?” Summer refuses to entertain most dog behaviours, but she does indulge us with a brief tail wag.

I sigh, watching the door. (It is definitely not a wistful sigh. I want to make that perfectly clear.) Ebb used to say that a watched goat won't milk itself, but I never found that advice helpful. It's not like I can rip the door open and go after him.

This is a goat that cannot be milked.

“Are you hungry? We could have bacon again,” Shepard offers. “Or eggs. _And_ eggs? We can do bacon and eggs.” We're dressed identically today—after my bath last night, Shepard was only too delighted to clothe me in something other than scorched rags. (I apologised in advance for the tail hole. And the claw holes.) (He says he can include the dimensions in a footnote on my compendium page. I'm to make all the adjustments I need.)

I drift over to the kitchen counter, feeling aimless. In the cupboards I find a few wrinkly tomatoes, a cloth bag of unwashed mushrooms, a heel of crusty bread, several eggs...maybe it's better to think about breakfast, instead of Baz. Food is the best distraction I could ask for, seeing as it's genuinely more interesting than everything else.

“I'll cook. Is that alright with you, Calcifer?”

The fire crackles cheerfully enough. _“How could I refuse, after you provided me with your personal furnace services last night? All I ask is you save me the eggshells.”_

I'm not a confident cook. Preparation was always more Penny's thing, whereas I was the enthusiastic taste-tester. (She calls me a human rubbish bin. Anything edible and I'm your man.) Shepard has to help me unwrap the mushrooms, and one tomato is maimed by my claws and tossed into the fire. Fortunately, Calcifer doesn't mind being a bin, either.

I'm not an entirely lost cause, on the culinary front. My claws come in handy for cracking the eggs, and my tail transforms into a disturbingly good toasting fork, hoisting the bread above the flames. Between us we manage to get a decent cooked breakfast on the table, where Summer waits like a queen on her throne of hardback fiction.

I've got a forkful of fried tomatoes halfway to my face when the dial spins again, the door opens, and Baz stumbles in looking like he's done more than simply wake up in a wheelbarrow. (More like he was run over by said wheelbarrow, and then it backed over him another two or three times, just to be sure.) He notices us at the table, shrugs off his cloak, and forces himself into an empty chair.

He looks awful.

I'm so glad he's here.

“What's all this?” he asks casually, though I notice the way his jaw tightens, black lines creeping around the backs of his ears. His shirt's ripped, one tattered sleeve hanging off his arm.

_That's alarming. We should be alarmed by that, right? Why is nobody else alarmed?_

Shepard spoons fried mushrooms, tomatoes, an egg and the last strips of bacon onto Baz's plate, almost losing his glasses to the teapot in his scramble to pour.

“Thank you, Shepard.”

“No problem. Long night?”

“Long enough.”

“ _Simon was worried about you.”_

I scoff and tear into a still-bubbling egg, splattering yolk all over the table. Baz groans and shifts his plate away from me, muttering under his breath about _the futility of serviettes_.

“I was _not_ worried,” I splutter. Whose side is the fireplace on? “Thought maybe you'd done a runner, that's all.”

Baz's forehead wrinkles. “Done a...what?”

“A runner. You know—pegged it. Legged it. Gone and not coming back.”

“Oh,” Baz frowns, stabbing at his bacon. “No. I came back. All of my clothes are here.”

Of course. He steps out into the abyss and worries about the fate of his _wardrobe_.

“ _I wasn't worried.”_

“No, you unfeeling horror, I expect not.”

“ _Nice to see you too, you blight.”_

I use what I am beginning to affectionately think of as my butter claw to ready a piece of toast, then take no prisoners in loading it full of stuff. It's a bit of a hassle transporting it to my mouth without half the toppings dripping down Shepard's shirt, but I manage. Baz watches my display of culinary dominance with one eyebrow at attention, his lips parted far enough for me to glimpse his tongue, worrying his teeth.

“You'll eat us out of house and home.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, goring a tomato. “That's my diabolical plan.”

“I fear that before it comes to fruition, you will have exploded.”

I growl at a mushroom, scaring it off my fork. “Not likely. It's not my problem you don't have an appetite, after you've stuffed yourself silly with hearts.”

He looks at me blankly. “Not this nonsense again. I simply conduct myself with a modicum of self-control, unlike yourself.”

“What's a modicum? Use people words.”

“ _He calls it self-control, but truthfully, he's very uptight.”_

“Take that back, you ash-ridden cur.”

“ _Never in this lifetime, o' heartless man.”_

“It's nice to have a fry-up,” Shepard interrupts loudly, making quick work of his own plate. “Simon, we can go into the village today and get supplies while Baz is in the bath. What do you think?”

“ _Don't forget my firewood!”_

Baz spares Calcifer a withering glance. “How anyone could possibly overlook _you_ and your ruinous mouth is a mystery, dear fire.”

“ _The same way our friends at the table are overlooking how terrible_ you _look, you decaying decadent.”_

Calcifer is attempting his own unique equivalent of playful, but the words sting. Baz, who hasn’t taken more than a single bite of his food, slides his fork down and pushes back from the table.

“ _Don’t be like that. Can’t we lovingly exchange hurtful comments anymore? That's our thing. What do we have, if not the abuse?”_

“Baz, come on—eat something,” I try.

“No, the talking ashtray is right. I must be lowering dining standards considerably, given my appearance. Calcifer, hot water, if you would? Enough to burn away all thought.” He turns to look at me, weary and worn. “Enjoy your time in the village. Don’t drown or go chasing after seagulls. They are unforgiving bleeders and _will_ go for the throat.”

I flap my wings, upending a teacup. Baz is overlooking a few things, too—namely my more dragonly aspects, and how I'm unfit to be seen in public until further notice.

He's hovering at the foot of the stairs, pretending to inspect his fingernails. Before he tucks his hand back inside his sleeve, I see them—thin black lines, racing down his wrist and over his knuckles. He sneers at me. _Stop being such a twat. There's something wrong with you._ (And that's rich, coming from me.)

“You can borrow my cloak, Snow, seeing as you're so attached to it.”

My skin tends to look a bit red, owing to the scales. Still, he's not exactly helping the cause with comments like that. I roll my eyes, doing my best _Baz Pitch is once again unimpressed with life_ impression, and hastily change the subject.

“Weather looks shit. Don't think I'll bother.”

“Oh no, it's going to be glorious today!” Shepard says, mopping up tomato juice with a piece of bread and heroically missing the point. “It's nice here this time of year. We'll be fine. You’ll like it, Simon. Weren’t you saying yesterday how you’re excited to go to the beach?”

Baz leans against a pillar (well, _lounges_ , really), smirking like his life depends on it. “How quaint. I also have a scarf you can use to disguise your more prominent features, Snow. You can wrap it around your head and stoop over, like you’ve spent all night trapped in a barrel. The villagers will simply mistake you for a crotchety old crone—not an uncommon sight, at the seaside.” He sneers, and I briefly imagine what he’d look like if his hair tragically caught fire. _Not so mouthy now, are you?_ “And not too far from the truth.”

I throw my fork at him, but he's already started up the stairs, cackling his head off. It bounces off the pillar uselessly.

“Go marinate in your bath, you cocky git.”

“I will. Are you planning on joining me today? Care to share another delightful conversation whilst I soap behind my ears?”

Summer barks her disapproval as Calcifer cackles and spits.

“ _Simon, I’m so glad you were walking in the wrong direction that night. You've made things very interesting.”_

I shovel my face full of toast and mushrooms so I don't have to reply or think about Baz in the bath. (I spent _far_ too long doing that while I was in there, last night.) (I did remember to clean behind my ears. Eventually.)

A brief panic grips me as I remember him telling me specifically not to use his shampoo or conditioner. I did my best not to disturb his fancy bottles, but what was I meant to do, swill about and hope the grime rinsed itself off? In the end, I went for two half-empty containers that had innocent enough labels: _A calming of birds_ and _Essence of brimstone_. The latter was foamy, so it was good for my curls _and_ the knobbly bits on my back. I smelt really clean and fresh (and smoky) afterwards. It was made for me, really.

Hopefully Baz won't notice that I touched his potions. And if he _does_ notice, maybe he won't mind—he’s definitely got more important things to worry about. (Like his face being taken over by darkness.)

I get back to work on my breakfast, demolishing everything in my path, and feeling slightly less self-conscious when Shepard does the same. He says we can go to the market to buy vegetables and firewood, and hire a cart to drag it back through the dunes. “We're only an hour's walk away, so it won't be bad. Last time we were here, I hid a couple of wheelbarrows in the long grass.”

Wheelbarrows. Why does it _always_ come back to wheelbarrows?

My mouth's full so I don't try to garble a reply. The dial above the door starts spinning, and Calcifer announces that it's the royal city again. So far, all but one of the customers have been from there—Shepard jumps up and runs over, radiant smile already fixed firmly in place. (I’d buy a spell from him; he’s just that friendly. He could probably sell me a headache.)

I look down to see Summer sat between my feet, looking up at me with her big eyes. “Do you want to come for a walk today?” She nods, tongue hanging out of her mouth. I remind myself there's a person trapped beneath all those cute curls of fur, and I mustn't treat her as a sidekick. When Shepard returns from the back room, I ask if there are any seaside wizards who might be able to help with her curse.

“There's no one legally trading magic in the village these days, except for Jaz Lavande.”

I roll my eyes. In my opinion, it's the most ridiculous of Baz's fake names, though it does face stiff competition from _Daz Pendragon_. He helps me pull the cloak on over my wings—it's uncomfortable, forcing them down like this, but there's no way I can go outside with them exposed. Shepard fusses over the fabric, making sure everything's covered. I wrap my tail around my waist, hoping it can behave itself while we're out, and then I'm walking to the staircase, picking up a piece of sky-blue fabric that comes fluttering down.

I stand and listen. If Baz is lurking at the top of the stairs snickering, I can't hear him. I grip the scarf and despair. _Is this really what my life has come to? Dressing up as an old lady to avoid being chased down the street by angry bearded men with pitchforks_? I loop it over my head, and Shepard deftly ties a knot beneath my chin—the scaly side of my face is completely covered, and as long as I keep my head down, I might get away with it. An undercover dragon, off to market.

“What do you think, Cal?” Shepard asks, filling his pockets with coins.

“ _I think he looks like a grumpy snake dressed up as a handkerchief.”_

I waddle over to the fire and scrape breakfast scraps into the grate. “Here. Even though you don’t deserve it, after that.”

“ _You’re a good egg. Don’t forget my wood! And bring me back a variety, yes? Oak gets old after a while. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of silver birch, or a branch or two of cedar.”_

_Cedar._ Now I’m thinking about Baz in the bath again. Great. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“ _You’ll cedar what you can do?”_ he snickers after me, crackling with glee.

“Calcifer,” I groan, hobbling away. “It’s too early for jokes that bad.”

“ _Don’t fight it, kid. Your wooden attitude’s not fooling anyone.”_

I hobble over to where Shepard waits. The door's dial is turned to the cloud—I haven't worked out what all of the symbols mean yet, but this must be the castle's own door. He pulls it open on bright sunlight and the dunes where Calcifer settled the castle last night.

I start down the steps, almost slipping when Summer goes skidding between my legs, making a break for the open door.

“ _Runaway hound!”_ Calcifer calls. _“Shepard, tackle that dog!”_

He does, launching himself on top of Summer before she can get her nose outside, and wrestling her back up the steps. I'm useless in my current bundled state, so I lean against the wall and watch as he deposits her by the fire, bending down to point a finger in her face.

“I'm sorry, but you'll end up in the sea again and I'm not swimming after you this time. Baz isn't in any fit state to magic you back to dry land. We'll look for spell-breaking stuff at the market, how's that? You can stay here and keep Calcifer company.”

“ _Yeah,”_ the fire roars, _“she's a dogged conversationalist.”_

“The jokes!” I growl. “Stop!”

“Be nice to her,” Shepard says, turning his wagging finger on the flames. “Or you'll get a sack of damp oak and nothing else.”

Cursed beings suitably admonished, Shepard joins me at the door. I mouth an _I'm sorry_ to Summer and Calcifer and follow him outside, crossing the drawbridge that spans only sand.

“Remind me to pick up some camomile tea for Baz,” Shepard says, reaching into a pocket for his notebook and pencil. “I've got it on the list, but the teashop's at the far end of the village, and sometimes I forget.”

I nod, barely listening as we start off along the coastal path. There are gulls overhead narrating our intrusion, providing a soundtrack as we clump through sand, the castle a shrinking black blemish behind us.

* * *

On our way to the village, Shepard fills six or seven pages of his notebook with _fascinating facts!_ about Simon Snow, former goat farmer. (In this hypothetical encyclopaedia, would I be listed under magickal creature or mythological?) He asks about my wings, and despite the disappointing confession that I've never flown, we stop for a minute so he can sketch them from different angles. The tail—which I accept is my most lively addition—prods at him whenever he gets too close.

“Interesting,” he says, after it goes straight for the eyes. (It’d be a bloodbath if he weren’t wearing glasses.) “It's like it has its own mind.”

“It's certainly got a delightful personality.”

I'm not sure my tail is any more fascinating than a talking fireplace or a moving castle, but Shepard's nice enough, and I let him satisfy his curiosity as we make slow progress from sand to dirt to cobblestone, marking our arrival at the seaside village of Saltnook.

I had no reference for what the sea would smell like—salty, yes, but it’s also open, empty, and _outside_. Everything about it is vast. It's the best thing I've seen in my life, I think—the flat blue line on the horizon, like an artist sliced the world in half with their pen and spilt all the ink on one side.

_This_. I like everything about this.

We're following the coastal path, walking past the first outcroppings of stone houses, grey with shuttered windows and weathered roofs. We haven't seen any people yet, and that's fine—I'm happier with the birds and waves, breathing clean air. Up in the hills at home it's nice, but we still get smoke and pollution from the city. Here, in a tiny village by the sea, waking up to sea-song each morning? That wouldn’t be bad. I could probably live somewhere like this, at least for a while. (If I weren't such a catastrophe. What did Baz call me yesterday, _an apocalypse on two legs_?)

I could find a bit of land, fence off a yard for the goats, and keep to myself. No curses, no neighbours, no bother. (No wizards.) (I suppose he could visit, if he promised to behave. Leave your wand at the door, that sort of thing.)

“The market's this way,” Shepard says, pocketing his notebook. He's asked at least a hundred questions, and I tried to answer fairly, but it was hard to keep up. I take his arm and lean over the stick we found in the dunes, fashioned into a makeshift cane. With my wings bulging against the cloak, I’m hoping to resemble the crotchety old crone of Baz’s imagining, out for a walk with a kindly youth. I tug the scarf over my eyes, until all I can see is a patch of pavement.

We get the cart sorted first, paying a bloke at the market's edge to load it up with food. I spend a lot of time standing still, staring at things—the market’s lovely, with striped awnings propped over the stalls, and cheery traders selling everything from flowerpots to birdhouses. It’s busy, but not the sort of busy you find in the city, where everyone’s rushing and never getting anywhere. People mill about in small groups, gossiping and haggling, woven baskets slung over shoulders. Almost everyone is older than me—I see one baby in a pram, but no one else can be less than thirty. Maybe the local kids don’t think much of the market...they probably spend all their time by the sea. (I know I would.)

Everyone we meet seems to recognise Shepard—he gets more slaps on the back than I could personally handle. (If I were him, I’d start slapping back.) Many ask after the wizard Lavande and his ailing health, wondering when he might next venture out of his shop.

“Oh, any day now!” Shepard says merrily, returning every handshake with sincerity. (He’s exhausting.) “Nothing as common as illness can keep Jardin down for long.”

I roll my eyes. _Jardin Lavande?_ Honestly. I wonder what illness Baz has been using as an excuse to keep his adoring public at bay. A terminal case of over-dramatic flouncing?

We buy bags of potatoes, mushrooms, onions, beans, nuts, and packets of meat wrapped in salted paper...someone in the castle must have a sweet tooth, because Shepard spends five entire gold coins on a crate of chocolate. (And refuses to let me sample it.) He buys different woods for Calcifer, and boxes of biscuits for the dog. (She's a fiend for shortbread.)

When the cart is almost full, Shepard says he'll run to the teashop to fetch camomile tea for Baz. “Wait here and I'll be back in five, alright? The shopkeeper told me once about a werewolf repellent he bought on the magickal black market. I’m wondering if Baz could take it apart, see if there’s anything that might help with Summer’s curse…anyway, got to sweet talk him a little, so don’t go anywhere!”

“Fine,” I say, leaning against the cart, picturing Summer's reaction to being called a werewolf. _And many a heel was chomped on that day._ The idea of a magickal black market is, quite frankly, horrifying, and I should probably be drawing up a petition about it. _Dear police, please stop this scary shit right now. Yours truly, Simon “Completely normal in both looks and behaviour, nothing to see here officer, kindly move along” Snow._

I hear two women nearby having an interesting conversation and decide to be a nosy bugger, sidling closer with my scarf pulled down over my face.

“The letter said the Mage's men'll be here within the fortnight,” one woman croaks down her nose to the other. They're hunched under a lamppost, completely oblivious to me standing mere feet away, catching every word. It's amazing how little attention I gather in my disguise. “Going to recruit the baker's lads _and_ the lighthouse keeper's.”

“Only the three of 'em?” the other grouches back. “Not so bad.”

“Fer now, but who's to say they won't come back wantin' more? Carys's girls are of age. And the two blacksmith's sprogs, they're close enough in the mind of some. Won't be any young 'uns left out Saltnook way.”

“Not good, is it, Angharad?”

“No, it's not good at all. Can't take all our little 'uns, can they? And leave us old things here with nothin' to live for?”

It sounds wrong. ( _Alarming_ , even _._ ) Children who aren't old enough to drive a carriage, who grew up with the sea at their doorstep, fighting in the Mage's meaningless war. In all the curse-related confusion, I hadn't spared much thought for how things were going in the city...to learn that conscription has advanced all the way out here, to the middle of knobbing nowhere, is a shock.

_The soldiers in the alleyway were right. It should be me_.

But the Mage wouldn't take me, even if I volunteered. Not like this. (Though objectively I'd be much more useful—with a tail as bloody-minded as mine, I’d wreak havoc. Write new legends.)

Gareth's probably had his conscription orders. Same with everyone else on the hill. I missed it. _How to get out of a war you don’t believe in: Let a frilly vampire break into your cheese shop and lick your shabby neck._

And all that led me here.

Of one thing I’m sure—I'd choose a wizard over a war, any day of the week.

My thoughts slip away as I spot Shepard weaving through the sea of people, wooden boxes piled in his arms. It doesn't look like he haggled his way to a werewolf repellent. I'm about to hobble over to help him, when one of the two women I've been spying on reaches out and touches my arm.

“May we assist you, Mother?” one of them rasps.

“Um, no!” I splutter. “Piss off.”

They _do_ piss off, which I'm glad for (one of them calls me a mad old bat), though what I see taking their place under the lamppost does _not_ make me glad at all.

A soldier in a grubby black uniform, smudged and torn.

It looks like he's marched a long way. A hat blocks most of his features, but what I _can_ see is decidedly wrong—pale, melted, and oh so sharp about the mouth.

Shit. I mean… _fuck_.

_The Wraith of the Waste is here._

There's a moment where I almost do it. I almost _go_. Try to catch a glimpse of dead blue eyes in the marketplace, lace and frills and fangs.

Confrontation. Curse. _Freedom._

But if I go, Shepard's left alone to face the soldiers. The castle, and everyone in it, is at risk.

I swallow. _So what is it then, Simon? You or the castle?_

I pause for a moment, but a moment's all it is.

“S-Shepard,” I stammer, stumbling into him, sending the tea chests flying. “The Wraith's things! _There!_ ” I tug his sleeve and hope he gets a glimpse without being too obvious. His smile remains fixed in place, like a true professional. “We have to go. Quick, in case _he's_ here!”

He knows who I'm talking about. _Lamb._

Expert wizard botherer. Amateur composer of love poems. Right fucking pain in the arse.

I frown, stomach twisting in what might be envy. (Why? It's not like I'd be seen dead with a haircut like Lamb's.) Shepard helps me up into the back of the cart, maintaining our frail-grandmother-out-to-market ruse, and speaks with the driver. I risk another glance at the lamppost—the vampire soldier is gone, which worries me. _Where are you, you crooked twat?_

I see another soldier (or maybe it's the same one, who fucking knows) lurking by the flower stall, staring at our cart. It flinches as, for a brief moment, a shrill whistle pierces the air. I'm convinced the only thing holding them back from the chase is the fact we're near the crowded market.

I can't see how we'll get out of it without a fight, if it's like last time. Baz isn't here to rescue me in a cloud of glitter and sarcastic comments.

“Shepard.” I crawl over stacked food and firewood, hoping he can hear me above the clip of the horses' hooves. He does. “We’re being followed. We can’t let them find the castle.”

“Don't worry,” he says, holding out a hand. “Baz knows. We'll be fine. I don't think the Wraith's here—just his entourage.” I grip his arm briefly, then let him return to his friendly conversation with the driver. He’s wittering on about the best sort of tea to drink on a Tuesday, as if we’re not currently being stalked by liquefying vampire parasites.

_Baz knows._

I can't see _how_ he knows, unless he followed us here. Surely if that were the case, he would have made himself known in a shower of sparks and glory? For a moment I imagine him in a disguise like mine. Perhaps standing under a lamppost, complaining bitterly about the war…

I spot one of the vampire soldiers as it comes wriggling up the road after us, struggling to keep up with the cart. I'm not sure these things have enough human left in them to speak—it groans and reaches, mouth moving madly. (I'm grateful that the Wraith only nipped me that night in the shop, and didn't go at me like I was a bacon roll.)

There's no way I can fight, trussed up in this cloak. I’ll have to expose myself. (My wings. Not the rest of me.)

Pity. I like it here. I'd rather not incite the locals to riot.

Just as I'm thinking a confrontation is inevitable—two more soldiers come lurching at us from an alleyway, stumbling in the road as the driver pulls on his reins—something odd happens. A ghost cart—and that's the only way I can describe it—breaks off from our own, all shimmer and artifice. It veers left down a side street, and for a second I lock eyes with another me, made of smoke and suggestion.

He doesn’t have wings or a tail or scales or anything.

He’s more me than I am.

Whatever this conjuring is, it's enough to fool the idiot vampires—they go staggering after it, moaning and retching the whole while.

It's anticlimactic, I admit. Downright baffling, too. But at least it works—Shepard grins back at me, then goes on pretending nothing strange is happening, describing his ideal Sunday afternoon. The driver seems not to pay the other us a blind bit of notice, and I'm left speechless from the magic, my wings cramping as we journey slowly towards the dunes.

I crane my neck until the back of the ghost carriage disappears from view.

_Other me,_ I think. _Stay that way.  
_

I wonder if he smells like soap and brimstone.

The vampires don’t catch up; the magic keeps their attention long enough for us to escape. I keep looking over my shoulder to check for wrong faces, but wherever they are now, it’s far from us.

Led on a merry chase by a carriage knit from cobwebs.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Shepard has the driver drop us off at the edge of the dunes. We unpack everything—well, he does, seeing as I’m still pretending to be ninety years old—and he tips the bloke extra not to think about where we're going. We then pile our wheelbarrows full of stuff and take a painfully slow walk over the sandy edges of the coastal path. At least we're in the middle of nowhere again—I can straighten my spine and stop pretending to be Shepard's granny.

“That was close. It was as if they recognised me,” I wheeze, heaving my wheelbarrow over an unkind dip. “What was that _magic_?” I whisper the last word, as if the sand itself might be listening.

Shepard wipes his face with a sleeve and digs inside his collar. He pulls out a long silver chain, at the end of which hangs a familiar charm.

A delicate silver teapot, like the one Baz was wearing yesterday. The one I watched him tuck inside his shirt before he went through the door.

“We all have one. Actually, only me, at the moment. He attached one to Summer's collar, but then she clawed the collar off and we don't know what became of the charm.” He pushes it back inside his shirt. “If you lift the spout it opens, and Baz’s necklace whistles. We're only supposed to do it if we're in trouble—you know, outside of the castle. He can find where we are.”

“But why...” I have to kneel down and think. About the teapots, about Lamb. _Have I lost my only chance to break the curse? Why did I choose the castle?_ Instead, I ask, “Why does he care if you're in trouble?”

Shepard offers me a drink of water. “We work together, Simon. I get the door, Calcifer moves the castle, Summer finds broody, wayward dragons, and Baz...Baz is the magic. The trading, the travelling...it doesn't work if one of us gets left behind.” We start pushing again—I can make out a black turret rising out of the sand. The castle's around the next dune, and I've never felt so grateful to see a gargoyle before. “I'll ask him to make one for you. Nice idea, don't you think?”

_It's beautiful and I want one_ —that's what I want to say. Instead I splutter, “Don't. Don’t ask him. I don't need one, I was only curious. A bit. At least I know not all of that jewellery he’s drowning in is pointless.”

“Interesting fact about the teapots, he—”

We stop dead, barrows and thoughts abandoned.

Up ahead, a golden-brown streak comes zooming across the sand towards us.

I've seen that shape before in a situation not unlike this one, right before it knocked me over.

_Summer._ Summer's outside of the castle.

Just as she rams into my shins and sends me flying, Shepard breaks into a run. I get up, swearing bloody murder at the dog and lurching after him, though because of the sand we're both doing this awkward, slow-motion run that would probably be funny, if it were happening to anybody else.

Summer barks as she bounds alongside us, ears flat against her head. She’s not running away—at least not right now—she was looking for _us_. I catch up with Shepard as our feet hit the boards of the drawbridge, and we race through the open door together, crashing into the stone steps. (That's _another_ bruise for the collection.) We peer up in unison, expecting an intruder or a mangled vampire or, shit, even Lamb himself at this point. _Oh, hello! While you're here, fancy undoing the mess you've made of me?_

What if he followed us from the market? What if that was _him_ under the lamppost, and not only did he bite a curse into me that night, but also his abiding love for dressing up as an old lady?

But no. It’s not Lamb.

What we find in the kitchen is ever more terrifying.

I’d say it’s even worse than _me,_ and I’m an outright tragedy.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“ _Don't come in here,”_ Calcifer calls, above the roar of deep unhappiness pouring from the figure on the floor. _“He's having a bad day. You're better off outside.”_

“We can't stay out here,” Shepard says, helping me to my feet. “The food will go off. And we found some cedar and maple for you.”

“ _Do not speak the seductive language of trees to me, apprentice.”_

“Come on, Calcifer. Don’t you want some fresh flavours to fuel your scheming?”

I will forever marvel at Shepard's ability to remain upbeat when faced with complete disaster. (I can't think of any other way to describe what's happening in front of the fireplace right now besides _total fucking disaster.)_

“ _I do need wood, and I'm looking forward to sampling the fine wares of Saltnook,_ ” Calcifer replies calmly, crouching behind the ashes of his last log. _“In fact, I’ve changed my mind. You may need to bring me one or two pieces immediately. Afterwards, if you'd like to evacuate for all that remains of eternity, I wouldn't blame you. I like both of you too much to watch you die.”_

Shepard royally fucks me over by loudly declaring that _he'll_ go back for Calcifer's wood, and _Simon can stay to help!_ “I’ll move the bags and crates to the door. Won’t be long!”

He's gone before I can argue, leaving me with the thing on the floor.

That thing must, at one point in time, have been Baz. Or at least more Baz than it bloody is now.

What's pooling before the fire doesn't much resemble the wizard I've known for the past few days, but logically it must be him. There's his wand, next to where his legs should be. And isn't that one of his blue earrings, drowning in a clump of glittery slop?

Baz is melting.

Baz is...well, he's becoming one with the floorboards.

“What the...? Is dressing like an uppity canary not getting you enough attention?”

He's in danger of dousing Calcifer, so I reluctantly drag myself into action, stepping around the spreading mass formerly known as _the great wizard Pitch_ , and scooping up the demon with an ash shovel.

“ _I can't leave the fireplace,”_ Calcifer burns. _“If I’m not here, it all goes wrong. Where's that chatty apprentice with my wood? Put me down, Simon, please.”_

I lower him into a dry patch, salvaging the burnt ends of logs and twigs and hoping it's enough. Balling up Baz's cloak, I try to create a barrier between the grate and the fast-congealing wizard.

“He'll drown you,” I say, moving my body in the way and spreading my wings until I resemble a fire guard. “Calcifer, what’s going on? What's all this shit coming out of him?” I can't even make Baz out anymore—it's just puddles of _stuff_ everywhere, with lumpy Baz-shaped bits somewhere in the middle that might once have been his feet, knees and elbows.

“ _His feelings,”_ Calcifer says. _“He came tearing down the stairs not long ago, saying he was about done with everything. Then he started ripping his hair out and turned into this.”_ Baz howls, spewing forth another bucket’s worth of thick, oily sludge. _“The good news is that last time this happened, it came out fairly easily in the wash.”_

“He’s done this before?”

“ _Oh yes. I call it The Emotional Mudslide.”_

Shepard's back with wood—he almost trips and scatters an arm-load of logs as he races up the steps. Calcifer gratefully climbs on top of a piece as the fireplace fills with the pleasant snap of cedar. The muck is spreading, inching towards the open door. It’s all over my shoes and Shepard’s clean trousers.

I don't know what to do or how to make him stop.

Baz's emotions must really be fucked, if this is what they look like. What on earth was he doing in the bath that upset him this much? Baths shouldn't hurt. (If they do, you're doing them wrong.)

“Shepard, give me your necklace.” I push inside his collar as he pops the buttons, digging out the teapot. I can feel something wet creeping up my trouser leg—my _clean_ , _fresh-smelling_ trouser leg—and I don't think there's much time. I pull the spout on the teapot charm and a shrill, high-pitched whistling fills the room.

“ _Not that racket again! That's the second time today.”_

I turn and watch the formless mulch on the floor stir and slowly take shape, until a jellied, squelching hand lifts itself from the black and extends shaking fingers my way.

“ _That's it, Basil, pull yourself together_ — _if you don't, the village will call an evacuation again. Remember how that went last time? We weren’t allowed back for months. Lavande had to fake a magickal sabbatical.”_

I don't know how to make the teapot stop whistling, so I pass it back to Shepard, and reach out to touch the drenched finger coming towards me. I find what I hope is Baz, then there's a gasp and sigh of magic, a popping sound—

And he's standing in the kitchen, wrapped in a fluffy bath towel, with furious eyes, and—

_Pastel-pink hair?_

Well. It's not _just_ pink—there are so many soft colours, like I saw in the bath last night. Blue, orange, green, purple—shimmery and sweet. It makes me think of morning, after a storm.

I take a breath and hold it.

It's _different,_ don't get me wrong—I'd got used to his wavy black hair, harsh against his smooth, terminally unimpressed face. But it's also pretty. (Really, really pretty.) And isn't it a bit longer than it was before? Brushing his shoulders. I want to run my—

“ _You!”_ he seethes, producing his wand from somewhere in the folds of his towel—which is thankfully fluffy enough to cover everything, despite the fact he's got it draped over his shoulders, instead of tied sensibly around his waist. _“_ This is _your_ fault!”

“What? _Me?_ ” I splutter. (Come on, Simon—who else would he be throwing baseless accusations at?) I can't escape—I'm pressed up against the fireplace, legs beginning to burn. Shepard's teapot has stopped whistling, and he mentions the onions going soft in the sun. He dashes off to see to the onion crisis, leaving me alone with this one. Summer—who must have chosen the castle over a new life in the dunes, after all—goes with him.

“ _The kid didn't do anything,_ ” Calcifer spits, more confident now the impending threat of extinction has faded. (Every last trace of the muck vanished when Baz got up off the floor.) _“You're being the human equivalent of a campfire right now.”_

Baz tips his head back, looking down his nose at me. (I can't help but feel short.) He lifts his long arm in my direction, wand held steady, and curls his lip in a tried and tested sneer. “I told you quite plainly not to touch my shampoo and conditioner.”

Silence, for a beat. Then it hits me.

_Is this..._

_Is he having a meltdown for the ages because I took a_ _bath_ _and used his_ _conditioner?_

“You are fucking joking.”

“ _He's not messing around, kid. That was dark magic, just now. Was it the coconut scrub? Tell me you didn’t touch the scrub.”_

“Shampoo and conditioner...well, really—fuck _me,_ this is over the top.”

“ _This is nothing. After he called off his friendship with the Wraith, he summoned the spirits of darkness, and they are_ not _polite house guests. Chewed a hole right through the table_ — _Shepard had to glue it back together. The castle remembers.”_

“Why are you incapable of respecting my right to privacy, Snow?”

I grind my teeth and jut my chin out, meeting his furious eye.

_Go on. Curse me, Pitch. Do you think you’re the only dramatic idiot in this castle?_

“Clearly you are incapable of following a simple directive, such as _don't touch my bloody things_.” The wand wobbles, but he doesn't lower it. “I _need_ my potions and bottles left untouched. I _need_ my baths as I like them, as I make them. Otherwise I cannot rest, I cannot—I...”

And as he steps closer, I notice the black veins emerging from the ends of his towel. The lines crawl up the left side of his face, the white of his eye tinged grey in the corner.

_What's happening to you? You’re turning to ash._

“The baths help,” I say quietly, holding up my hands, “with…this. With what happens to you, when you go through the star door.”

“ _Yes_ , the baths help! But you ruined it. _Look at me_ , Snow!” He begins pulling at his pastel hair, bowing his head to show me the shimmery roots. (I still think it looks nice.) “You've made a monster of me, a pastel pastiche, a mockery...you, you've _cursed_ me...” He collapses to his knees, every inch the showman. “I see no point in going on. In living without...if I'm not...I can't be...” His towel billows around him, and all I think is how lovely he is. Ridiculous, yes, but...

He’s lovely.

“Alright,” I say, kicking over the ash bucket and sitting down, so I can share in his wallowing. “Let's do this. I've ruined your precious hair—questionable ruin, by the way, because it looks bloody good on you—and you're going _off_. If I say sorry, will you stop trying to murder the fireplace and get a grip? We’re meant to be on a truce.”

And I think, _if you find yourself monstrous, what must you think of me?_

He peers up at me from between his fingers, cheeks turning the same shade as the ends of his hair. (A pretty, purpleish-pink.) “Tell me why you're here. I've made it clear I cannot lift your curse, and yet you persist in haunting me, like an ill-mannered, bacon-quaffing ghoul.” The grey in his eye grows darker, pressing into his pupil. My heart's racing and I don't know why. “You can leave at any time and undertake your noble quest—to slay the Wraith by irritating him to death, or whatever foul notions might be rattling about your skull. You had a prime opportunity today to bugger off and be done with it. _Why are you still here?”_

Flames are coiling in my throat like yesterday, and if he raises his wand at me this time, I'm apt to snap. To _scorch_. “I'm here because you said you'd help me, and I made a deal with Calcifer. I'm here because, despite the temptation, I was more worried for _you_ and the castle than for myself. Do wizard dictionaries include the word _honour_ , because it doesn't seem like you have a very solid grip on the idea?”

“Honour,” he coughs, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. I watch star-shine streak through his hair. (Seriously, this is a good look. He should keep it.) “A lecture on honour from a lost hatchling. How lovely.”

I snarl, showing him my fangs. “You're crying on your kitchen floor because your _hair_ is the wrong colour. You're taking it out on me because you can't see what the real problem is.”

“The real problem,” he repeats hollowly. “Other than you invading my castle and disrespecting my exfoliator. Pray tell, what would that problem be?”

I snort and smoke plumes out.

_Everything you're running from. Everything you're doing to yourself._

“ _Gentlemen,”_ Calcifer warns. _“I politely request any burnings be conducted outside, whether they be at the stake or of a more spontaneous nature.”_

“There won't be any burnings,” Baz says sternly. “Though there will, perhaps, be a dragon slaying. Alert the press, dear demon. We’ll finally get that knighthood the Mage has been dangling over Watford’s head like a carrot.”

I shake my head, tried to dampen the fire in my chest. “I'm not doing this, Baz. I'm not fighting you. We called a truce. Throw tantrums all you want, but when you're done, stop being such a fucking arse and accept that I'm not going anywhere. Not until I'm once again short one tail, two wings and a mythical skin condition. Not until you're safe.” I say it calmly enough, but my throat is raw with heat. (Would he kiss me there again, if I cried fire?) “I'm sorry I touched your things. I won't do it again—I'll go weeks without a bath, if I have to. But don't pretend like you want me gone, and don't pretend I'm the biggest problem in your life, because we both know I’m not.”

Silence, save for the crackling of fire.

“I like the teapots, by the way,” I say quietly, turning for the door. I need so badly to be outside, under the sun and away from everything. _I want to see the sea and forget who I am._ “Thanks for your help in the market. That's how I know you're all talk,” I croak, tail dragging down the steps behind me. “You wouldn't have helped us escape if you didn't want me to come back. You would have left me there to face Lamb. Let me go with him.”

“I was helping Shepard,” he snaps. “And I do _not_ want the Wraith on my doorstep.”

When I look back I see his tongue flick out, touching his top lip.

_Nervous. Lying. Afraid._ I know his tells, now.

“I'll be outside,” I tell Calcifer.

If I don't go out, I'll go off. Do or say something I'll always regret.

“ _Like I said earlier, you're better off out there.”_

Baz whispers something that I can’t hear.

Not out here, under the sun.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gulls, swooping in patterns. The sea, louder than the clutter in my head.

I breathe deeply and dig my fingers into the grass.

I don't know how long I've been out here on the cliffs, watching the sea. The sun's dipping when Shepard comes up the hill to find me, Summer wrapped up in his arms, stubby legs wriggling to get free.

“He's better now,” Shepard tells me. “He says he's sorry. Want to come and have some tea? Calcifer's letting us fry potatoes on his face.”

I _am_ hungry. Starving, in fact. I'm a lot calmer, too.

It was the right thing to do, choosing wings over fangs. I don't regret it.

If Baz is sorry, I want to hear it from him.

I cried at the sea, just a bit, and I feel better. It's like a weight's off my shoulders. (Not literally. The blasted wings are still there.) It's like...I'm _here_ , and this is happening. All of it. Nothing's going to change unless I make it so.

I'm tired of having things happen to me. Ebb's death, losing Penny, taking over the farm, meeting the Wraith.

Baz is right to want control in his life. I think that's what this is about.

And I want control, too.

I return to the castle and go to him—cross-legged on the floor, draped in his towel—and loop my arms under his. His hair is black again. (I'm almost disappointed.)

“Upstairs with you,” I rasp. “Shepard, would you mind making some camomile tea?”

“Not at all,” he says, containing a smile. Before I turn away he mouths to me: _Great idea!_

“ _Get some rest, Basil,”_ Calcifer sears, resplendent in his bed of fresh logs. He pops and crackles contentedly. _“Shepard told me about the Wraith's companions in the village. As soon as tea's ready, I'll move us another fifty miles east, how does that sound? We’ll be doing the postman a favour—the letterbox was stuffed full with the Mage’s rubbish_. _Shepard boarded it up and wrote NO PROPAGANDA on the flap._ _”_

“Fifty miles east is somewhere in the sea, Cal. And the Post Office always finds you, no matter how far you run.”

“ _Are you a navigator, as well as apprentice? Fifty miles south, then. Fifty miles on dry land. Fifty miles away from the nearest postman.”_

Baz isn't fit for language at present. He nods along feebly, allowing me to manhandle him towards the stairs. Gripping the bannister, he drags his bare feet up the spiralling steps one stone at a time, hair crowding his face.

The black lines have taken his left eye and are crawling over his cheek, down his neck and back, disappearing into the towel.

I think this magic—whatever this _is_ —is making him weak. Vulnerable. (And yeah, alright, a tad maniacal.)

“Where's your room, Baz?” I ask, palm flat against his back to steady him. (My wings are spread as a buffer in case we take a tumble, and my tail is waving in the air behind my head, keeping balance.)

“The top,” he whispers, clutching his towel. “Top of the spire.”

I groan, wondering why wizards haven't invented a decent inner-castle pulley system yet, for crises such as these. _When your qualified wizard loses his marbles and needs a midday lie-down, strap him in and say goodbye to endless staircases!_ “Come on,” I say encouragingly. “Let's get you into bed.”

Baz is in a right state, but he can just about cope with stairs, and after what feels like a ceaseless trek to nowhere, we reach the top of the spire's narrow staircase. A single door awaits the foolish survivor. Between the dunes and the castle, my legs are burning, and I feel like I've done ten laps of the yard trying to catch the goats when they're in a rascal mood.

“Alright, we're here. I'll go and fetch your tea—save Shepard the trauma.”

Baz grips my shirt—even his fingernails are black. Marauding lines snake along his thumb, twining around his wrist. It's the closest I've been to the magic, apart from when I lunged at him in the bath. I watch darkness pulse beneath his skin.

“Snow. You must help me to my bed.”

Oh. Well.

If you insist.

I expect there to be some kind of gruelling wizarding intelligence test in order to unlock Baz's bedroom door, but he gracelessly slumps against it, and it creaks open onto night. For a moment I think we're downstairs, facing the blank emptiness of the star door—but no, there's a lamp, and if only there were something to light it with, I'd feel less concerned about leading an out-of-it Baz into a murky room.

My tail stretches up to prod me in my throat.

I really am a pillock sometimes. Fancy wasting time looking for fire when I'm the walking equivalent of a matchbox.

I'm not sure how to control my fire-breathing, but I only need a tiny spark, like a tickling cough coaxed from the back of your throat. I huff against the wick, and as if by magic (ha!), it catches fire.

"I won't hear any more nonsense about you not being a dragon," Baz says weakly. "You're clearly incendiary."

I snort smoke, making both our eyes water, and pull the lit lamp off a hook on the wall.

I don't know what I expected Baz's bedroom to look like. I hadn't given it much thought. Downstairs is clean and tidy, aside from the endless book mountains, and maybe I thought there'd be more of that.

But oh, the truth is so much more _interesting._ (Fascinating, Shepard might say.) (Has he been up here, or am I first to see the inner sanctum?)

Baz is a _hoarder_.

Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, piled into corners and hanging from the ceiling—I don't know that I've ever seen so much _stuff_ before. Gareth got into collecting belt buckles for a while, and there was a time I couldn't go anywhere in the shop without tripping over one, but even Gaz in his darkest days couldn't compare to _this_.

"Baz. There's a lot of shit in here, mate."

He grunts, head lolling against my shoulder.

"I mean, you keep referring to my present _**whipped**_ state—fuck’s sake, you know what I mean—but your room's more than a bit lairish."

"A bit _what?"_

"Lairish. You know. Dragons live in lairs." (Dark green walls, frowny gargoyles.) (Definitely a lair.)

"That is not a word, Snow."

I steer us around a pile of clothes thrown over what is probably a very nice armchair, when used for its intended purpose. I recognise the pink patchwork coat he'd worn like a cape during our run-in with the soldiers. I can't even _begin_ to get my head around the amount of jewellery draped over this and flung under that.

Baz is _way_ more of a dragon than I am. I'm about to torment him with this excellent news when I trip over a chair leg and nearly blind myself on an ornate arrowhead. (It's balanced on top of a…ram? Carved from marble?) (This room is a _mess_.)

"Stop that," he snaps, as we tread deeper and deeper into his cave of curiosities. (At least for me, it's bloody curious.) Our feet crunch over discarded crystals and dirt-encrusted coins.

"Stop what?"

" _Thinking_ ," he hisses. My arm's around his waist, holding him up. (He's thin. An outrageous lack of bacon.) His skin is cold against mine, and his left eye is now completely black. "It's an entire production, played out across your face. One can practically hear the gears grinding in their death throes."

I scowl and shove him a bit harder than I need to. (Do I need to shove him at all?) He's floppy in my arms, feet dragging across the floor.

"Baz, you've got an actual hoard of treasure—you know that, right? No more taking the piss out of me, or I'll tell the world."

He giggles, loose and drunk on something grim and unappealing. The lamp's banging off piles of gemstones and forgotten gold, eventually leading us to a sea of soft fabric that I really, really hope is his bed. I don't shove him hard this time—a nudge and he's sprawled, groaning into a nest of heavy blankets.

"I'm a dragon," he wheezes, pulling himself along the mattress and burrowing under the covers. "It was me, all along. My apologies, Snow." His words are slurring. I reach forward to take a look at the lines on his chest, but he flaps me away. "You worry. Don't."

"But you won't." I put the lamp down and hope it doesn't set any of his books and loose papers on fire. Peering around in the dim, it's difficult to believe this is how he lives. (In a cavern of crap.) (Not even _glittery_ crap. Just crap.) It's like he's two different people, in and out of this room. "You're not well."

He lifts his face far enough for me to see the lines, stretching and writhing. It reminds me of the Wraith's soldiers and how they stagger around, unsteady. How they're _wrong_.

"I do like your teapot."

Baz looks around blearily, as if either of us could possibly pick out something as bland as a teapot in this muddle. His fingers harass his hair, black and lank against his forehead. It's like he's sweating, but he's freezing cold. (If he'd let me help, I've plenty of heat to spare. But the idea of me—Ruiner of Baths—climbing into his bed would probably finish him off.)

"What are you blathering on about now?"

"The teapot necklace. And the collar Summer very much doesn't wear. It's a good idea. Kind, I mean. Shepard said that's how you helped us earlier."

He spares me a look of absolute disgust, which means he's not _that_ close to death's door. (Right eye's looking a bit grey now, though.) His long fingers fish under the blanket, until he pulls out his own necklace. He must have been wearing it under the towel.

"It was my mother's idea. She enchanted one for me as a child.” He runs his fingers along the chain. “She said she'd never lose me in a crowd. I was always running away, Snow."

His eyes are closed, but I don’t imagine that sleep will come for him.

"Can't see how anyone could lose _you_ ," I mutter, which raises half a smile from the depths of the bed. "You're wearing at least half a bloody haberdashery, at all times."

Baz coughs against a hand. He wipes something on the blanket—black specks, like the soot I cough up when I'm on the verge of igniting an innocent piece of furniture.

"Baz."

"Snow."

"You're hurt."

"I'm quite fine. Usually a bath is enough to halt it—I have everything how I like, to help me relax—but today's was ineffective, that's all. A long rest and I'll recuperate all the same."

“Baz,” I whisper. “Don't go out tonight.”

“Snow.”

“I mean it. Don't go through the star door.”

“ _Snow_. Enough.”

"You can stay here and eat actual food, instead of hearts." I twist uncomfortably, feeling guilty. "Shepard's making you camomile tea."

His lips are pushed together. (I think he's chewing on himself.) "That will help."

"I...can _I_ help?"

He grunts. (He's such an arse, even while dying.) (At least he's committed.) "Yes, Snow—immolate me. Make my troubles go away."

I _think_ he's joking.

But I'm not sure.

"Don't be a prat, Baz. It helped before, right? Maybe it would help again. I could, I don't know... _push_ a bit, see if any of the Wraith's magic is still around. I mean, it's got to be. It’s not like my appearance has gone back to normal."

He hums in what might be agreement. "Indeed. Even so, we won't risk it, Snow. Tea and sleep, and I'll be marginally less disastrous come morning."

I swallow down my ten (twenty, fifty) questions about the black lines and the star door and what happens on the other side of it, deciding a bit more niceness probably won't kill me. "I'm really sorry for ruining your bath. I stand by the teapot thing, though. They're lovely." He might be too weak to say something sarcastic, so I’ll go as far as I can. “Not very heartless of you at all.”

There's no chance for him to reply—or if there is, he'll have to save the sentiment for the creepy stuffed owl that's looming over his headboard. (Fucking _mayhem_ in here.) I hear the distant ringing of a bell, and a voice echoing from the other side of Baz's cave—Shepard's brought the tea. I tiptoe to freedom, swearing as I send a violin case flying off the back of a wooden elephant. ( _Why?_ ) (Luckily, the case is empty.) (I don't need him coming after me for defiling his instrument, on top of everything else.)

I can’t see a fucking thing.

I am going to die in this room. _Death by inappropriately placed bric-a-brac._

At the top of the stairs there's a wooden tray holding a teapot, a porcelain cup, and a stack of digestive biscuits. Shepard's also seen fit to include a scrap of paper with a doodle of a smiling face, and what could very possibly be a smear of Summer's drool. I think about Gareth hassling me from the bottom of the stairs, disputing my sick day...in no world would _he_ ever have made _me_ a pot of tea and dribbled-on biscuits.

What a thing to be jealous over.

I pick up the tray and once more negotiate the occult assault course to reach Baz, who has propped himself up in a sea of pillows and lies there, hair spilt over the sheets in a wave, one thin wrist resting next to his face. He looks like a dying poet. Like he's doing us all a favour by remaining alive long enough to deliver his wisdom unto the people, and then he'll depart from this life.

I wish he'd let me warm him up.

“Tea,” I announce, placing the tray in his lap and backing off, almost ending my existence on a stone tortoise which has been left in the worst possible place. (That’s three broken toes, at least. Damn it all.) This entire room is a tripping hazard, designed to kill me. I can't see where he's put his wand—the towel was discarded when he flopped onto the bed. Maybe it's wrapped up in there. “Isn't there a spell you could do to make the lines go away?” I've been thinking about it, and there must be magic in his bath water. He must cast healing spells on it, or else the bottles really _are_ potions, and that's why he went spare earlier.

I really don't think his hair looked _that_ bad. (It suited him.)

“Rest, Snow. That's all I need.”

I'm not sure I believe him. I pour a cup of flowery tea and watch him lift it to his lips with shaking hands. He picks up a biscuit, and he must catch me staring, because then he's rolling his eyes and offering it to me, instead of dipping it in his drink.

“You sure? Eating won't hurt you.”

“You look at food the way most people look at a sunset, Snow. Or a person they love.”

I shrug and mash the whole thing into my mouth.

I do love food.

“I'll go,” I mumble, when my mouth’s not full of undigested disgestive. “Let you rest.” Maybe there's some healing magic in the midst of all this junk—he's still too grey for my liking, but his right eye's not turning black anymore, and the lines (veins? What _are_ they?) haven't stretched any further across his face. “Tug on your spout if you need anything, alright? I'll come running.”

Baz spits tea all over himself and the tray, mutilating the biscuits. (My tail manages to duck in there and save one, but it's mushy at the edges.) I find the napkin Shepard thoughtfully placed under the teapot and dab at the worst of it, Baz furiously batting me away as I try to mop his face.

“What? Honestly, for a genius wizard, you're right bleeding tragic.”

“And you are an absolute _nightmare_.”

“I'm only trying to help!”

At least I've put a bit of colour in his cheeks—Baz is rosy, refusing to look at me.

“Less of your help would be a blessing.”

“I meant use your necklace, alright? To let us know if you need anything. Demands for more tea, or, like, anything, really. You might get hungry. Just say, yeah? It's a fuck load of stairs, but I'll manage. I can make you some soup. Tomato. Or do you like mushroom better? Cream of mushroom.”

“Clearly I need to make adjustments to the necklace's design.”

“Why? It's lovely how it is. Great how it whistles when you pull hard on its-”

“ _Shut up, Snow._ ”

What's got his knickers in such a twist? (Other than the dark magic taking over his face.) (That would be enough to twist my knickers, as well.) (I don't wear knickers.) I shrug and start to back away towards the door— _and so begins the epic quest to leave Baz’s bedroom with all limbs intact_ —when his hand darts out to grip my wrist.

“What is it?”

“Stay?” he asks, looking everywhere but at me. “There's a chair behind you. We could...” he clears his throat. “I'd hear about you. About your life, before it was ruined. I owe you that much.”

Even my tail is shocked. (It slams into the wall and the spade gets stuck in a painting.) (It’s your own bloody fault, mate.)

_Baz Pitch, interested in me._ _In my life._

Here's the short version for you: goat, eat, cheese, _sod off Gaz_ , cake, sleep, wake, shit embroidery. The end.

“Really?” I ask, casting about for the fabled chair. (There's no way there's actual _furniture_ in this fucking maze.) (I'm going to take this vaguely solid object, sit on it, and hope it takes my weight.) “Baz, your room's a tip. Sort it out.”

He smirks, fixing his watery eyes on me. “It's my mind, Snow, or what's left of it. Strewn across the floor for your discerning gaze to chance upon. Everywhere I've been.” Then, quietly: “All the wrongs and rights I've done.”

_His mind._

_The wrongs and the rights._

“What do you mean?”

He screws his eyes shut, gripping the tray with both hands. Then he relaxes and fades against the bed. I push the tray off his lap, so he doesn't knock it over during his inevitably dramatic slide into sleep.

“I don't want to talk about my life, Snow. I'd rather hear about yours.”

I pull the blanket up under his chin. (That way I won't worry too much about the black veins, and I also can't see so much skin.) (Skin is distracting.) Then I try to remember if I've ever talked about my life with anyone who isn't Penny.

“I live on a farm,” I say. His eyes are closed, but I think he's listening. “A goat farm. There's a shop and a barn and a charming yard. I don't normally rhyme this much. Gareth and the lads make cheese, and I sell it. I do a bit of sewing too, when I'm not mucking out the goats. You know. _Goat stuff._ ”

“Goat stuff,” he says dully, breathing through his nose. “Dragon stuff and goat stuff. Go on.”

“I wasn't always there. I grew up in the city—you know, where we met? Down the valley. I bet it's nothing compared to the capital, but I like it. The hills are nice, right? You must know—you took your castle for a walk in them that day. Green and fresh. I always liked the green.” I blink and look down at my claws. I haven't thought about Ebb for hours, and when her face comes to mind, it's with a great, heaving ache. A loss I'll never lose completely. “I grew up in the children's home, and I never knew my mum or dad. When I was old enough to be apprenticed off, they sent me up the hill to work for Ebb. Stitch goat faces onto bags, count the change, light the lamps—that sort of thing.” I've never told Gareth any of this. He never asked. “I didn’t want to go back, at the end of the day. I'd beg her to let me stay up on the hill with her, and sometimes she would.” There's a lump in my throat. Is it fire or feeling? Either way, I'll choke on it. “I know I'm not meant for much. I'm just _there_ , right, and I let things happen to me, and I watch greater things happen to everybody else. But that's fine. It was always enough. Why would anyone want interesting things to happen to them? Look where it gets you.”

I'm surprised when I feel his fingers between my claws, stroking the edges of a rough, reddened scale, then wandering along the back of my hand. I like how cool he is to touch. I don't know why I ever thought he was cold.

“Ebb sounds kind.”

“Yeah,” I sniff, hoping Shepard wasn't planning on having his shirt back any time soon, seeing as I'm about to wipe the contents of my nose all over it. “Yeah, she was good.”

I tell Baz about the day Ebb died.

I tell him about the years since, and yeah, fine, I complain about Gareth a bit, too. (I don't mention the belt buckle collection. I'll save that comparison for another day.)

“I know I never had a mum,” I croak at one point, after it feels like all the water in the sea has come dribbling out of me. “But really, she was it, wasn't she? She was the next best thing.”

He hasn't pulled his hand away the whole time I've been talking. He's shifted to the edge of the bed, and he's holding on to me while I hold on to the past.

“She was your mother, Snow. You had someone.”

I nod. I mean, is this what Calcifer meant when he said the black Baz-slime was emotion? When Baz said the mess in here was his mind? How does anyone cope, with this much shit kept inside them?

Ebb cried a lot. She said it was a good thing.

_Get it out of you, lad, or it’ll eat you alive._

_It’ll eat you like you eat cheese. All at once, with not a speck left over._

He's looking at me. I'm looking back.

“I had a mother.” And I know that's he's right. It feels _right_. The breaths come easier, filling me with a lightness I didn't realise I'd been lacking. “And I wasn't alone. I had Penny, too—she worked on the farm before she got a job in the city. She's who I was going to visit, when you found me with the Mage's men. She works at the bakery.”

Baz sinks further into the cushions, fingers still trailing over my own. He looks proper done-in, but the black bits have retreated from his face and neck, and the tea seems to have relaxed him. He's not far from sleep, I don't think. He’s groggy as he parts his lips and whispers, “I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“Today. Earlier.” His eyebrow goes up. “The hair thing.”

“The hair thing,” I smirk.

“Yes, Snow. I...I felt I had little control, in the moment. I panicked. I apologise. It was good of you to come back here when you could have fled. To choose this, even after everything.”

I let it hang in the air between us before replying. “Thank you.”

“I have something for you. A surprise, come tomorrow.” He must see something like hope in my eyes, because he's shaking his head, tossing his hair about on the pillow. “It’s not an end to your curse, but...perhaps a reprieve. If you'll have it from me.”

I don't hesitate. “Alright. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Tell me about her, next,” Baz is saying, stifling a yawn. “Tell me about your friend.”

He’s tired, but not quite unravelled enough for sleep. His face has become carefully blank again, like a mask.

I talk about Penny and the shop for what feels like hours, until he's breathing softly and his skin's less grey, and a restful quiet settles in the over-crowded room. I take his hand and fold it over his chest, lifting the tray so if he rolls over in the night, he doesn't get soggy crumbs everywhere. I think about saying something before I go, but he's sleeping, so there isn't much point.

If he were awake I’d ask, _what's the surprise going to be, Baz?_ _What's the reprieve?_

I’d say, _I want to help you. The darkness can't have you.  
_

I'd say, _You won't fight for the Mage because you're at war with something worse._

I'm halfway down the spiral stairs, glimpsing Calcifer's glow and hearing Shepard's gentle laughter, when I realise that for all I told Baz about my life today, I didn't learn a thing about him.

_Except for the teapot_ , I think, almost tripping over my traitorous tail. _I know he kept his mother's teapot. Also, he's very particular about his baths.  
_

_And…if you think about it, he told me everything. Showed me everything._

I join the others in the kitchen. Calcifer's putting up a fight as Shepard accosts him with a frying pan. Summer sits at the table, barking to punctuate their bickering. I slide into the chair next to her, running my claws over the bare patch of table where bite marks were burnt, before Baz spelled them away.

_I've seen the inside of his mind,_ I think. _All over this floor, all over his room._

I imagine I can still hear gulls overhead, and the tired hush of waves. Shepard announces that the potatoes are cooked; Calcifer complains about moving the castle. I think about that.

I think about how you can move your castle fifty miles, but the mess inside goes with you.

_I was always running away, Snow._

The mess in the kitchen, the mess in your room.

Summer nudges my arm with her nose. I've been scratching my scales until they're picked and sore with blood. "Sorry," I say automatically. (To her, to myself.)

_Simon, it's time to stop scratching._ My claws curl over my palm. _And it's time he stops running._


	5. A dragon's reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pjpg has drawn [an absolutely stunning picture of post-bath pastel-haired Baz](https://parijpg.tumblr.com/post/611552561855610880/ninemagicks-they-say-the-wizard-pitch-traverses) from chapter four! Please do click the link and take a look - he's a work of art. :)

I wake up next to the fire, stiff and crooked on the floorboards. Shepard offered me a spare room upstairs last night, but Calcifer wanted me to sleep here so he could use my heat for inspiration. (A fire demon's radiator, that's what I've become.) At least I have a decent blanket now, instead of a cloak.

The blanket doesn't smell like cedar, though.

“ _Back with the living, kid?”_

I yawn, feeling my wings crinkle and crease as they unfold from my back. “If that's what you are, then yes.”

Calcifer looks brighter this morning. It's amazing what a varied diet of trees will do. “ _His highness went out early this morning, but I shouldn't think he'll be long. He's not one for daylight hours.”_

I'm up in an instant, tearing over to the door and pulling at the handle, making a spectacle of myself. “He went _out_? Calcifer, he's a wreck! Why didn't you stop him?”

“ _Oh sure, I'll just hop down out of my grate and incinerate his free will.”_

I roll my eyes and force the door open, finding only bland hillside and dead-eyed sheep staring back at me. It looks like Calcifer walked the castle to the middle of nowhere during the night. The sky is dull with grey and mist, and the sea feels far behind us. “Where are we?”

“ _No idea. An anonymous glen?”_

I groan and shut the door. At least I don't need to worry about Baz being harassed by sheep—he'd never waste his carefully curated wardrobe on such an unresponsive audience. I peer up at the dial, wondering if I can will it to spin by grumpiness alone. “Did he go through the star door?”

Calcifer fizzles, gambolling over his latest log. He's in a good mood, considering he was almost extinguished yesterday. _“Stop worrying_ — _he went into the city. He said he needed to buy a few things, and if I were you, I would not attempt to get between Baz and flippant consumerism.”_

Typical. I bare myself to him in his bedroom _(not like that_ ) _,_ and he sneaks off to go _shopping_. He's probably spending more money than I've ever made in my life on ceramic hedgehogs, or something equally pointless. (Well, not pointless.) (Hedgehogs have plenty of points.)

The dial's pointing to the cloud. That's our door. The rain cloud is Saltnook, and the sun is the royal city—there's a notch worn into the symbol by the arrow, it moves there so much. The star is where Baz goes, then there's a crescent moon which the door hasn't opened on yet, and falling leaves. That one's the valley, where I'm from. _Home of the wizard Pitch._

I huff, but the door doesn't budge.

Fucking door.

“Good morning, Simon!” Shepard calls, skipping down the stairs. “Ready for breakfast? We're running late today. Summer is _not_ impressed.”

I watch her struggle to balance on her stack of books, front paws on the table. “Well, food is important, Shepard.”

“Absolutely!” He clanks around on the kitchen counter as I cast another frustrated look in the door’s direction. “After yesterday, we've got a variety. Would anyone say no to pancakes?”

“ _Only a monster would say no to pancakes. And even then, any decent sort of monster would still say yes. I would know.”_

I listen to them discuss the merits and pitfalls of various toppings, not too concerned that it's going to boil over into an argument, because with Shepard it never does. He's the cure for all anger. I'm thinking about the inside of Baz's junk-filled room, trying to decide how many days it would take the two of us to clean it, when the dial spins and I almost fall out of my seat.

No. This won't do.

I _cannot_ be this excited every time I think he's coming home.

_(And when did you start thinking of this place as home? Home is where the goats are.)_

“ _Valley door.”_

My stomach lurches. _See?_ _Home._

“How may I help you, my dear?”

“Is my mum's poultice ready?”

“Sure is, wait right here and I'll fetch it for you.”

I listen as Shepard conducts business, staring miserably at the remains of the tablecloth. (If I stay very still, customers don't always notice me.) (Should they single me out as an unusual feature of the kitchen, Shepard tells them I'm a gargoyle that hasn't been attached to the ceiling yet.)

The child in the doorway pays for his potion, and as he's shunted back outside asks, “Will the wizard Pitch be at the Mage's assembly? My dad's a soldier, and he says—”

“Maybe, we'll have to wait and see! Who knows what a wizard wills and wants?”

Customer dispatched, Shepard returns to the table with a stack of creased, rain-beaten envelopes. There must have been a recent downpour in the valley—Ebb used to call it _wet rain_ , the sort that soaks you to the bone in seconds and makes you forget what it was to ever be dry.

“ _More invitations from the Mage?”_

I sort through them. They're all identical, addressed to _The Renowned & Respected Wizard, Basilton Pitch_. I open one to find the same sensible handwriting that had filled the letter for Chaz Watford—the contents are also the same, inviting Baz to meet with the Mage and talk war. I leaf through the bundle: one, two, three, five, eleven. (I can count, but it's more efficient to skip a few.)

One of the letters has a different seal to the rest. I squint at it— _Office of the Registry._

“He has to deal with this,” I mutter, shoving the pile to one side. “Stop all this paper going to waste, if nothing else.”

_It’s time he stopped running._

“Well, at least Lavande is now on permanent hiatus,” Shepard says, fetching plates. “Baz sealed the Saltnook door and had me board up the shop. There's a sign in the window saying the wizard's seeking treatment in the royal city, and will be gone until further notice.”

“Will the Mage fall for that?” I ask uncertainly, hassling my teeth with a claw. (I haven't scratched myself since yesterday.) (Claws make good toothpicks.) “He's going to get suspicious if all four versions of Baz ignore his invitations. And hasn't he ever _met_ all these wizards he collects? Doesn't the fact they look alike ring any alarm bells?”

“ _Kid, you severely overestimate the Mage's intelligence.”_ Calficer laughs, green sparks flying. _“Watford is the only name Basil uses in the royal city_ — _it’s the only one of his characters the Mage has met. And that would have been years ago, when he first registered.”_

“Wizards have to register?”

“ _Yes. The Mage keeps a list of all magic users_ — _if they don’t register, they can’t legally trade spells in the kingdom.”_

_Office of the Registry._ I know it’s wrong to steal people’s post, but I want to know what’s in that sealed letter. (It’s not like _Baz_ will read it.) I’m thinking about the magickal black market Shepard mentioned yesterday, mentally calculating the odds of me successfully sneaking off with Baz’s post (would that cause another Emotional Mudslide?), when the dial moves again. I almost snap my neck in my haste to see where it lands.

_Royal city,_ I think. (I _long._ I _pine._ ) (What has he _done_ to me?) _And he better not be a_ _complete ruin_ _._

The arrow lands on the leaves again. _“Valley door,”_ Calcifer burns. My shoulders slump in disappointment. Before Shepard can bound over to greet his latest customer, however, the door bursts open, and a tall figure in knee-high boots and a dazzling blue coat saunters in.

My eyes narrow. _What were you doing in the valley? Surely the shops there aren’t upmarket enough for your tastes._

The relief at seeing him is massive. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for myself.

Baz has got a paper bag tucked under one arm, his sea-green earrings and matching necklace flashing brightly as he climbs the steps to greet us. “Shepard, please don't make any pancakes for Snow.” He sits next to me, stretching his long legs under the table, kicking my feet out of the way.

No pancakes? How did he know?

And who does he think he is, my breakfast manager?

“I want pancakes. Please, Shepard, don't listen to him—he's deranged. Yesterday scrambled his brain.”

Baz's coat is a deep blue, adorned with a detailed, beaded dragon. He hangs it carefully over the back of the chair, patting it dry. His hair's different again today—no pastels this time, but a midnight blue that takes his eyes from grey to sea-deep. There’s not a single trace of darkness on him—he looks rested and, well...pretty fucking good, to be honest. Like yesterday never happened.

There's a word for how I'm looking at him. _Scrutinising._ (And, let's be honest, _creepy_.) But I can't help it.

“No pancakes,” he repeats, tossing his hair like he doesn’t already suspect how much I want to run my fingers through it. “I have something else for our resident salamander. An extension of yesterday's apology, if you will.”

“ _You're going soft, wizard,”_ Calcifer crows, gobbling up another handful of eggshells. _“One Emotional Mudslide, and you're as good as ashes.”_

“Silence, you burnt offering.”

Baz drops the paper bag on the table between us. The contents smell edible. (I've a nose for these things.) It’d be foolish of him to think food makes for a decent barrier between us—I’ll smash through it in seconds.

Then I realise the smell is horribly familiar, and I actually _am_ smashing through the bag (well, ripping), because surely it can’t be true.

Surely he didn't—

Oh.

But he _did_.

“Sour cherry scones!” I splutter, letting them spill onto my plate. “From my bakery. Penny’s bakery. _The_ bakery.”

Baz is smirking at me and I don’t know where to look—at him or the scones. It’s come to something, if I have to choose between him and food. He’s thoroughly invading my mind.

He makes the decision for me, waving his wand in front of his face and muttering, _**“As you were”**_ _._ The blue shine fades from his hair as he turns his grey eyes on me and says, “I suppose you’ll be wanting a disgusting amount of butter with those?”

I nod, dribbling a bit because I can already taste them. They’re warm—Baz must have gone to the bakery last, on his way back to the castle. Maybe his shop front is in one of the alleyways off the square—we might have floated over it, the day we met.

“ _Had enough of Pendragon for one day?”_

“Quite,” Baz replies, getting up to fetch butter and knives from a drawer. “I trade under my own name in your city.” I nod vacantly. It’s taking everything in me not to give up on what few manners I have left and attack the scones with my face. “But sometimes a disguise is useful, when you wish to avoid the populace.” He winks at me, the bastard. (I happen to think I pulled off the crone look rather well.) “It is better to be yourself.”

Alright for him, talking in absolutes like that. He doesn’t have scales growing in unmentionable places.

“ _Would you say there is any likelihood of a spare scone, Basil? A bite for a beleaguered demon?”_

He scowls. “Fine, you glorified candle. All may partake. Shepard, don’t fret over that frying pan—come and sit with us.”

I’m starting to forget what it was like, being myself. Although I’m also starting to think I’m myself right now, like this...just in a different way. I mean, I know my tail’s a bit of a twat, but the wings have been useful, haven’t they? And I never need to worry about washing cutlery again, with these claws. _Dragon parts_ — _handy for all manner of domestic tasks!_

I’m getting used to it, and I know that’s not good.

But also…it’s not really that bad, either.

Baz has spread the world’s wimpiest layer of butter on his scone. (His _first_ scone.) (Nobody leaves this kitchen if they’ve only eaten one. I am invoking the law of Two-Scone Minimum.) I pull his plate to my side of the table and show him how it’s done. He gapes at me, transfixed by the dance of my butter claw.

“I cannot put that in my mouth, Snow.”

“Why not? Enough butter to stop your heart, that’s what I was always told. At least, that’s what Ebb would say, when she was watching me eat one.”

“I am not sure it was affirmation of your technique. Perhaps she intended it more as criticism.”

I frown, knocking one of his cherries loose. (Another win for the butter claw, and by extension, me.) “Not likely. I may not know much in this life, Baz, but I know my way around a scone.”

“I see.” He’s staring at it like it might jump off the plate and eat him first.

He must know these are my favourite. Did I tangent into the realm of scones and accidentally describe them, when I told him my life story? (My throat’s sore this morning from all the talking.) It’s possible. I would’ve told him anything to make the dark lines leave his face. To help him sleep.

“Try it.”

“I'm reluctant.”

“Why?”

“Frankly, Snow, I don’t know where you’ve been.”

What does he mean by that? “I’ve been here with you, and to Saltnook with Shepard. There was that one time I dared take a bath…and that’s it. That’s where I’ve been.”

Eyebrow up. “That is not quite what I meant.” The other eyebrow joins in. (Blatant bullying.) “You. Where _you’ve_ been, with those.” My tail, feeling left out, taps my claws to make things blindingly obvious.

“Oh.” Of _course_ I’m blushing. Fuck’s sake. “Well. They’ve been the same places, right? On me. I mean, no—not _on_ me. I tried once and it’s impossible, so— _fuck_.”

Calcifer cackles evilly, like the manifestation of hell that he is. _“You've both turned a dashing shade of pink. What a pity Basil didn’t keep yesterday’s hair, to match.”_

He _does_ look embarrassed. Not quite as mortally wounded as me, but he’s getting there. Words would only make things even more awkward, so I pick up half a scone and jam it into my face. It tastes like the past, like a poky little shop with a worn-out barn and long walks up the hill. The cherries are tart and perfect. It’s home.

I wonder if Penny made these this morning. Do assistant managers do much baking, or do they get to designate? Maybe it’s more Kipling’s area. (He of the little cakes and spare jam.) Whoever’s responsible did a bang-up job.

“Eat it,” I growl, as menacingly as I can. “If any scones are wasted today, the truce is off.”

He sneers at me. “Evidently, it was a mistake to encourage you like this.”

“ _Making mistakes, turning soft, visiting bakeries…”_

“You are aware you’re one bucket of water away from oblivion, aren’t you?”

“It’s too early for death threats,” Shepard decides, making it to the table. “I’ll help, Simon—no scones will be wasted on this day. They smell _delicious_.” Summer sticks her nose in, stealing a buttered half from his hand and dragging it onto her own plate. (I like her strategy—go in face first, thus removing the need for forks and fingers altogether.) (Can dogs eat cherries? Does it matter that she’s not really a dog?) “You can look through the post while you’re eating, Baz. The letters are piling up.”

Baz eyes his unwelcome invitations. I know that look—he’s about to abandon ship, even though he _still_ hasn’t taken a bite of his scone. Maybe he should adopt Summer’s mode of attack and bend his face over the plate. (Or I could feed one to him, so he doesn’t get his fingers sticky.) He’s got a piece halfway to his mouth now, lips parted, crumbly dough and one glazed cherry poised between his fingers.

I try to look away. It’s practically _indecent._

“No, fuck your correspondence,” I growl. “ _Eat._ ”

Another dose of the eyebrow, but I think I’m growing immune. He squints at me with what I assume is intense dislike (a safe assumption to make, then no one’s disappointed) and takes a bite.

He doesn’t throw it down in disgust or insult the chef. (If he _dared_ insult a sour cherry scone _,_ I swear…)

He bites into it again.

“ _This is a high honour, kid. It’s not often the wizard Pitch successfully keeps his feelings to himself.”_

Baz coughs, spewing crumbs in a highly uncivilised manner. Everyone at the table (and in the fireplace) is laughing—well, Summer’s wheezing, but she’s doing what she can with what she’s got. And it feels alright, you know. Despite how messed up we are, having breakfast in a castle that walked fifty miles in the night, it feels good. For the first time in a while, I don’t wish I were somewhere else. That feels like something to celebrate, so I butter my third scone while keeping an eye on Baz, to make sure he gets through his first. (I think he likes it more than he’s letting on.)

I want to ask him about the bakery and if he saw Penny, but I don’t know…I feel like yesterday’s conversation should stay between us, instead of being consumed and spat out like a bad joke by Calcifer. Not that the demon seems interested in anything except cherries, at the moment—Shepard, defeated by _his_ third scone, has taken to feeding bits into the fire with a fork. He holds back until Calcifer says one nice thing, then gives his reward.

“ _The fact that I will do anything for breakfast_ — _up to and including giving a compliment_ — _does not mean I have suddenly transformed into a being of lesser magic and malevolence. Expect a stellar return to form by this evening.”_

Shepard grins. “I wouldn’t trade you for anything, Calcifer.”

“I would,” Baz mutters. He glances at me before nudging another scone my way. “Well, Snow? The damned confection won’t butter itself.”

I smile, and it’s probably too toothy (fangy?) to be much besides monstrous, but I don’t care.

Baz isn’t running. The castle isn’t moving. The scones are fresh.

_I wouldn’t trade this for anything._

  
  


* * *

  
  


After Shepard and I clear the table, and Calcifer's grate is restocked to the point at which it might constitute an actual forest fire, we sit down and wait for Baz. (He asked us to. Said there was something important he wanted to do.) After what feels like hours—seriously, what does he _do_ in there?—he comes downstairs in a swirl of steam, smelling like cedar and bergamot. ( _Bergamot._ I saw it on one of his bottles in the bathroom.) I watch as he strides over to the table and snatches up his unwanted letters.

“We are having a burning,” he announces.

“A _what?_ ” I ask.

“ _How mundane,”_ Calcifer snips.

“Hush, demon.” He dumps a handful of letters into the fireplace. “This is supposed to be deeply symbolic, and as such, would fare better without your riveting commentary.” He pulls his sleeves back from his wrists, and tosses in another unopened envelope. “For the wizard Pitch, who enjoys playing hard to catch, curse, and otherwise communicate with.”

He goes to the kitchen counter and opens a cupboard under the sink, dragging out a heavy, dust-covered trunk. I notice he’s wearing another lacy shirt covered in stars, sleeves now rolled up to his elbows—he's doing all he can not to get any grime on it. As he pushes back the lid of the trunk, I find myself playing witness to every postman's worst nightmare—unopened letters, _hundreds_ of them, stacked and creased and crammed every which way. Baz lifts them by the handful and dumps them into Calcifer's cavernous mouth.

It makes sense that his secret untidiness has crept into the wider castle. It’s like his mind is overflowing into every obscure nook and cranny, creeping in at the corners.

“ _Unanswered invitations, ignored declarations, overlooked initiations_ — _I'll take whatever you've got, Basil. Paper's nutritionally void, but I love the taste. Especially the gluey bits on envelopes.”_

Baz grins, throwing another handful into the fire. With each sacrifice, he announces the death of a persona, murdered in their absence.

“For Jardin Lavande, dying of boredom.”

“For Daryl Pendragon, chronically unimpressed.”

“For Charles Watford, elusive and reclusive.”

I watch him, each movement of his wrist and lips, wondering if he means it. If he’s really going to stop running.

If he’s going to be himself, and only that.

Calcifer bursts up to the ceiling, almost roasting a gargoyle, then simmers down in delight. _“Cherries and undelivered post for breakfast_ — _aren't I the luckiest demon in the fireplace?”_

Baz's chest is heaving, hands on his hips, eyes bright with something I can't touch. I watch as he slips one letter back into the dusty trunk, and I glimpse the strange seal from earlier: _Office of the Registry_.

“How long have you been hiding from the postman?” I ask.

“Years,” Baz mutters, pushing the trunk back under the sink. “The Post Office is an undisciplined cesspit. Well, I do believe that’s quite enough burning for one day—Calcifer will grow ever more rotund and slovenly, if we continue.”

“ _Slovenly? I take that to heart, Basil. You’re the one who wastes three hours in the bath.”_

Baz threatens the fire with his wand, to no avail. “Now, can you behave yourself for one day, Calcifer, whilst I step out to see that a promise is kept?”

I jolt, unreasonably excited. Were the scones not my surprise? Is Baz going to do something else for me? Is it going to take a _whole day_?

“ _I am offended you’d think to lecture me on my behaviour, after yesterday's stunning performance.”_

Baz sneers, prodding at the fire with the ash shovel. “You've a mind to judge me, dear disaster?”

“ _No, but I've the heart to, you gushing wound.”_

I wrinkle my nose up at that one. Fucking nasty, these two.

“No matter,” Baz says, drifting back to the table and retrieving his coat. He pulls it on over his shirt, a cascade of blue and silver. I feel self-conscious in my day-old cried-on clothes, but there's nothing else for me to wear. I'd only feel bad, ripping more holes in Shepard's things. (If I tore up Baz's silky clothes, he'd obliterate me.) (The thought of borrowing Baz’s clothes makes me want to combust.) “Shepard, I'd invite you along with us, but I'll need you to take care of trade.”

“No problem, that’s what I’m here for,” he says amenably, brushing knots out of Summer's coat. “I can get to work on Simon’s chapter in the compendium while I’m waiting for customers.”

_“And what are you two darling things up to?”_ Calcifer spits. He sticks his scrap of a tongue out at me.

“Never you mind,” Baz frowns, pulling his wand from a trouser pocket. (I can only imagine he has pocket holes, so the wand can slide down his leg. Or maybe it’s retractable? Is it a tiny wand, and when he whips it out it gets bigger?) _(So many questions.)_ “You irredeemable spark. Snow, come here. Stand still and try not to look like an abhorrent nightmare.”

I go to him, desperate for something witty to say. (Between him and the fire, it’s hard to keep up.) “Fine, here I am. Don’t stand too close. Ebb told me never to trust a man who dresses like an arrogant parrot.”

Calcifer roars with laughter, while Baz looks undone. He hesitates. “Did she really say such a thing?”

It’s my turn to laugh, though it’s soon overtaken by nerves. I stand within arm’s reach of him, tail flicking behind my head. (I'm worried it's going to make a play for his wand, if he points it at me. The last thing this brute needs is a weapon.) He lets his eyes wander over my wings. “You’re more of a parrot than I’ll ever be. Those first, I think.” He bites his lip. _**“Out of sight, out of mind.”**_

Maybe this was his plan—make me soft and stupid with scones, then curse me further. I flinch but feel nothing— _does_ magic feel like anything? I glance down to see my hooked claws and trousers stained with butter splashes. (Maybe I _do_ go a bit overboard with the butter.)

Then Shepard puts his hand in the space between my shoulder blades, and it takes a moment to realise what's missing.

My wings.

My wings are _gone_.

Commence a mad scramble as I try to look at my own back. (Note to self: not physically possible.) There's no mirror in the kitchen, and I'm too worked up to attempt stairs right now, so I make do with running my hands over as much of me as I can. The holes in Shepard's shirt are there, but no stretch of hard leather...and the knobbly bits sticking out of my spine, are they gone too?

It feels like _my_ back.

It feels like _me_.

Baz's smile is small, but it's there. It’s all I can do not to cry. He tells me to hold my hands out, and I do, because I can't think. I can only do as I'm told. (And I’ll do anything he asks.) _**“Kitten, put your claws away.”**_ And this time he really _does_ smile.

I bring my hands up to my face.

_No claws._

I run my fingers over the scales on my arm, over my throat, the clear side of my face.

My finger are _soft._ My fingers are _mine._

There's something stinging my throat, and I don't think it's fire this time. (Another fucking rhyme.) ( _Stop._ )

He comes to me, closer than before, and raises his wand to my cheek. He’s focused, not gone or far away or wherever he is, when his face goes blank. He's _here._ _ **“Tip the scales in your favour.”**_

He lifts his hand—the one I held in mine yesterday—and runs the back of it along my scaly cheek.

Except it's _not_ scaly.

I lift my own fingers and rest them against his, holding them there. Against my skin. (One of my moles, actually. He's touching his thumb to it, just under my eye.)

“Baz,” I whisper. “What did you do?”

He smiles, and it's only somewhat sad. “I'm afraid it won't last forever—as I've said, I cannot lift your curse completely. Only the Wraith can. But…it might last a day.” He steps back, fingers trailing until we're no longer touching, and his hand drops to his side.

“ _Well,”_ Calcifer crackles, _“aren't you two disgustingly sweet today? Out with you, before I set fire to you both and dance on your ashes.”_

I can't stop running my hands over my face, my hair, my back, my arm. I crouch down to roll up a trouser leg and, sure enough, my skin is my own. Golden, freckled, familiar. (Is my arse still scaly? Would he need to cast a separate spell on my arse?) (What would an arse-descaling spell even be? _**Let's assess the scale of this dis-arse-ter.**_ Maybe. Probably not.) (I don't _think_ Baz wants to see my arse.)

“Looking good,” Shepard says, walking a circle around me. At his feet, Summer yips her agreement. Calcifer's being a prat about it, but I think he also approves, underneath the popping and posturing.

I can't take my eyes off Baz.

_How do you thank someone for this?_ _Do I deserve it?_

I mean, fine, I helped him to bed when he wasn't feeling himself. And I was nice to him about the teapot necklaces.

But _this_?

He called it a reprieve, but it feels more like a lifeline.

“Thank you.” And I say it five or six more times, words tumbling off my tongue like they can't wait to leave my mouth. He looks back at me, eyebrow raised, then tips his head in the direction of the door.

“Are you ready for the second act?”

“The what?”

“I threatened to surprise you, Snow, and I _always_ deliver on my threats. This morning has been but the opening scene. The symphony swells when we step outside.”

“The symphony...? Hang on, you're mixing your metaphors. Theatrical or orchestral—pick one.”

He flounders, his carefully plotted drama derailed. “Well, I suppose theatrical will do.”

“Alright. Stick to theatre metaphors only, then. No need to get the violins involved.”

He scowls and dips into a sarcastic bow. (Bows can be sarcastic, apparently.) “After you, director.”

“Are we going out?”

I can, I realise. I _can_ go out. Without cloaks and scarves and disguises. I follow him towards the door, dazed, running my hands over my back like I'm trying to hug myself. I could _hug_ someone now, if I wanted to. Has Baz ever hugged anyone? He looks up and the dial begins to spin. It stops on the moon.

“What's through there?” I ask, fingers feeling around the wing-holes in my shirt. He ignores my question, glancing back at me. Apparently he sees something distasteful, because his wand's out again, and—

“ _ **I can't make head nor tail of you!”**_

Oh. Right. I forgot about my tail. (I'm used to it. It's like having a moody, misbehaving shadow to do my dirty work.) It disappears, and when I reach my hand around to my lower back, there's nothing there. Not even a stub or a bump to suggest it ever was.

I take a staggering step forwards and slip off the edge of the stone steps, into Baz's arms. He pulls me up and holds me steady.

(Maybe he _does_ like hugs.)

“ _Do scones make you drunk?”_ Calcifer calls. _“Or are you falling for him?”_

I turn as dark as the embers dying in the grate. “Neither. My balance is a bit off, that's all. I need to recalibrate. Without my tail and wings.” ( _My_ tail and wings.)

“ _Well, have fun recalibrating all over Basil. Watch your step.”_

Honestly, the main problem with fire demons is they think they're bloody hilarious.

I join Baz by the door, gripping my scale-free arms with my claw-free fingers, and risk a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He looks good. Healthy. _Alive._ And I only had to talk his face off about my past to make it so.

_Maybe he'll take me to the valley_. _Maybe he wants to pay the chef of scones a compliment._

The arrow is still resting on the moon.

“What's through the moon door?” I ask.

He looks at me. (I swear his eyes sparkle.) (Because _everything_ about him needs to be glittery.) “Anything I like. Anywhere I'd rather be.”

The door opens and I look out onto a lazy late morning scene. The sun's shining through a haze of fog, spiralling up and over the hills. From somewhere close I hear a high laugh and a car horn, followed by the bleat of a goat.

It takes me a moment. I draw a breath through my teeth, and Baz touches me again, softly, the back of his hand on my cheek.

Together, we walk through the door to the farm.

  
  


* * *

  
  


I stand in the road, sucking in wisps of air and spinning slowly on the spot, like a redundant windmill. I run my fingers through my curls, over my face, along my arms again, just to be sure. Just to know I'm not dreaming.

“Baz. Thank you. Why?”

I'm hoping the rest of the question is _there_ , as these things sometimes are, and I don't have to clumsily try to put words to it.

He's looking away from the farm, to where the dirt road meets the edge of the hill and bends left, descending to the city. A warplane passes overhead, churning out plumes of grey. “As you delivered your absorbing monologue yesterday, I couldn't help but notice the fondness with which you spoke of this place. I thought you might want to see it again—reassure yourself that all goes on without you.” He turns to me. The wind catches his hair, and it streams away from his face and neck. “Naturally, I ought to see it too, so I know what the bloody well you were going on about.”

I scowl and kick him in the knee. “You're such a wanker. You _asked_ me to talk about myself—and it was more like one verse, not a whole monologue. Also, it was a convenient way of not talking about _you_.”

“I thought we’d agreed on theatre metaphors, Snow. Make up your mind.”

He rubs his knee and strides past me. The door to the castle has disappeared—it must have closed behind us. I have the thought before I can help it: _How do we get back?_

That's the moment I know I _am_ going back. That the world's pulling me there—with him, with the castle—and not here. Not right now, at least. Maybe circumstance will bring me back to the farm and goats and embroidery.

But not yet. Not now.

_I've got a Wraith to confront and an unknown illness knit from darkness to undo, before it devours my wizard._

_My_ wizard? (Best keep _that_ stray thought to myself.)

“Well? Am I going to sample this famous cheese of which you mumbled—poetically, and at great length, I might add? I'd be frightfully disappointed to have gone to such effort and _not_ come away with an unwieldy wheel of Camembert.”

“Sod off,” I grumble, brushing past him to reach the shop door. “I've never done a poetic thing in my life. And we make goat's cheese, so, bugger your Camembert.”

He pretends to be shocked, but we both know it's a mild sentiment coming from Simon Snow, he who needs his mouth washed out with soap. I push down on the handle, and as it gives I catch a rush of smells I'd almost lost the edge of: cheese, first and foremost, but also dust, summer, shoe polish…and a lingering sleepiness that all the tea in the world never quite took away.

Over and above it all— _cedar._

The bell jingles as I close the door behind us. My first thought is how small it seems in here now, when it used to be the world. My second thought, watching Baz as he examines the shelves, dust motes catching in the light as they touch upon his hair—he's the least shabby thing in here.

“There's a note.” He's by the desk where I’d sit and wait for customers. I go to him, peering down at familiar handwriting, swirled in blue ink.

  
  


_Closed for lunch. Do NOT steal anything.  
If you do, I will chase you down the street with an angry goat  
and the fury of a thousand spurned cheese merchants.  
(I would lock the door, but Gareth lost the key.)_

  
  


I bite down on my tongue. (My fangs are gone too, which is a good thing, else I'd be spitting blood.) _Penny wrote this._ It means she got my letter. It means she came all the way up here.

“Penny.” I leave it at that.

Baz is exploring again, reading labels on cheese and muttering about the smell.

“It's hardly going to smell like roses, is it? Or like whatever kind of exotic songbird you murdered to make that cologne.”

He frowns. “You've been spending _far_ too much time with my fireplace. The mouth on you is _astonishing_.” He runs his fingers along a shelf edge. “This shop…it smells like you.”

Well. Alright, then.

There's another letter on the desk in a sealed envelope, and it's addressed to me. I slide a finger under the flap and pull out a single sheet of folded paper, feeling my stomach drop.

Conscription orders.

_Simon Snow of [nondescript goat farm 001] on the hill, by order of the Mage and his most splendid kingdom, will report to the barracks in East Witherford on Tuesday-next..._

I crumple the paper into a pocket, glad that Baz is too distracted by my magnificent cheese to notice. Did Gareth get one of these, too? Is the war the reason Ebb's farm feels deserted?

“Come on. Maybe Penny's in the back.”

I walk through the doorway into the hall, savouring the creak of feet on friendly floorboards, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to look up into the dim. There are marks gouged into the walls from my wings, the first night they appeared. _I wonder what Penny made of that._

“There _is_ a practical element to our visit,” Baz says, following my gaze. “You can't ruin _all_ of Shepard's clothes with your blasted appendages, and I’m quite sure you’d fight off any attempts I made to shop for you.”

I see it vividly for a moment—me, dressed like Baz. (No way I could pull it off.) “I can fetch some clothes from my room.” _Will it still look the same up there? Did Penny come here looking for me, find the mess and assume the worst?_ “Wait here.”

Baz, eyebrow arched, pushes past me. Because his legs are so absurdly long he can take the steps two at a time, which hardly seems fair. “No, I think not, Snow. You've seen my inner workings—it's only fair I see yours.”

_My inner workings._ I hope he's referring to his mind and not, you know, bodily functions.

“Baz, do _not_ go in my room.”

“Stop me.”

_But what if there are pants on the floor? I'll feel like a right hypocrite, if he trips over something and breaks a toe._

Then the leggy git _runs._ I go after him, almost tripping again because I'm out of sorts without my tail, and I _almost_ get a swipe at his ankle. But then he's springing ahead of me, pausing at the top to consider which door before settling on the one sporting the most claw marks. (A fair deduction.)

And then he's in there. In my bedroom.

I grind my teeth and follow, chest aching because I really am in no sort of shape to be galloping anywhere, let alone up steep staircases. Baz has to duck to get through the low doorway—Ebb was tiny, so it never occurred to her to make the place accessible to invasive, mystic giraffes—and then we're both standing there in the middle of the floor, looking around at _my_ mess, this time.

“All that complaining about trinkets and a few charming carved animals, and you live like _this.”_

I shove into him with an elbow. “It’s only because I had a dragon-related meltdown, alright? And not _your_ kind of meltdown. No actual melting was involved. Normally it's tidy—I don't have enough stuff to make a mess, unlike you and your treasure trove.”

It looks shabby, with Baz in the midst of it.

Old walls, old bed, old floors, old clothes.

"It's comfortable," he says carefully, and I can't tell if he's taking the piss or not. "I'm afraid you _are_ lacking a sarcastic fireplace, though, and so my castle remains superior."

I laugh, shoving him again. "No escaped spaniel or over-helpful apprentice, either."

“Yes, Shepard _is_ suspiciously nice, isn’t he?” He hums to himself, examining the spines of the few books stacked by my bed. (Mostly goat stuff.) ( _The Practical Goat Farmer: An Illustrated Guide._ ) (And there’s one book about knights, which I hope he won't notice.) "There are no dragons here, either."

I give him a funny look, which gets me nowhere. _Does that mean he likes having me in his castle?_ _Am I officially considered a resident now? Maybe_ _this is how Shepard got his apprenticeship_... _he showed up one day and the castle adopted him._

I start pulling clothes out of drawers, wondering why everything I own is in shades of brown and grey. (There’s only one pair of pants on the floor and I salvage those before Baz gets a look.) One of the first canvas bags I ever stitched is under my bed—I pull it out and start filling it with stuff I won't mind ripping holes in.

I wonder when my tail will come back. Where has it gone? It must be _somewhere_. Has Baz sent it to bother someone else? It's got too much personality to disappear completely. I imagine when it reappears, it's going to be cross. _And for the unkind owner, a furious whipping_. Will I feel it, when my wings reappear? Or will I have to rely on the horrified reactions of passers-by? It'd be just like Baz not to tell me. He'd get a kick out of me being chased down the street by an exorcist.

When I've finished raiding my sad excuse for a wardrobe, I follow him downstairs into the kitchen. Again, I can't help but feel tatty—the cupboards are bare compared to the ones in the castle. (And our butter is definitely not of the luxury salted kind.)

Baz doesn't seem to mind that I'm not much of anything. I'm watching him run a hand over the cracked teapot, about to offer him a cup, when a loud noise turns us both towards the back door.

_Gareth?_ I think, followed by an almost painful burst of hope. _Penelope?_

But when Baz opens the door, we see only a goat.

"What are you doing out of the barn, Owen?" I ask, earning yet another raised eyebrow. (I should start keeping count. Make him buy me a scone when he gets to a hundred.) (I'll be set for life. _A kept man._ ) "You have to talk to them like they're people."

Baz's eyes complete a circuit of his skull. "This explains so much."

"What?"

"Nothing. Bleat away, Snow."

So I do. (Goats are reasonable enough, if you mind your manners.) (And by that I mean only chase them as much as you need to, and bargain with them like you would anyone else.) I'm shepherding Owen back inside the barn when a shrill, pissed-off voice calls across the yard.

"Simon Snow, who _do_ you think you are? And who is this outrageously overdressed man, taking up yard space?"

Baz stands between us, staring in confusion at a rake and other assorted gardening tools. His eyes snap to Penny, lips already curling into a sneer. "After our conversation yesterday, Snow, I was of the impression that your former colleague is kind-hearted."

"She _is_ kind." I swallow, flinching as mud splatters with each stomp of Penelope Bunce's formidable wellington boots. "Also terrifying."

"I believe the exact descriptors you used were _friendly_ , _encouraging_ and _caring_."

I growl, but that never seems to have an effect on Baz. If anything it makes him act like more of a prat, thus invoking a louder growl. And so the cycle goes on and on until I've exhausted myself and he's still getting started.

"She's all of those things."

"Really, Snow?" he drawls as Penny whips past him, catching his sleeve and barrelling into me.

I thought she was going for a hug, at first. I really did. Like, _I missed you so much, Simon, I'm so glad you're alive_ — _come here and let me hold you and your distinctly undragonlike self._

It takes approximately five seconds for me to realise my mistake.

"Who do you think you _are,_ Simon Snow?"

"Penny, look, wait—"

"Taking off in the middle of the night, trusting _Gareth_ with the postal system!"

"Did you get my—"

"Yes, I got your letter! Your handwriting was _awful_ , that's how I knew it wasn't a forgery." She pushes her glasses so far up her nose it's like they're wearing _her_ , instead of the other way around. "It contained a distinct lack of explanation and grammar." She's gripping me by my elbows, examining me. (Even behind my ears.) "Whose clothes are these? You look like you rolled out of bed into a jumble sale."

"They’re Shepard's. Well, mine now, most likely."

" _Shepherd?_ What are you doing, consorting with shepherds? I know they're always on your back about the goats, but that's something you ought to discuss with the others first. Do _not_ make deals with a shepherd consortium, Simon. And speaking of your back..." Her palms brush over my shoulder blades, snagging on rips. "Why are there holes in your shirt, Simon Snow? What _have_ you been doing?"

I can hardly tell her what I am. (Was? Will soon be again?) Penny's always good at knowing when I'm lying, but I'm going to have to hope she's too pissed off to see through it.

"Sword fighting."

She readjusts her glasses. (There are ridges dug into the skin either side of her nose.) She carefully bends to tug up her sagging wellies, and when she returns to an upright position, both hands are firmly pressed into her hips. (I'm in for it now.) "Sword fighting? That's all there was, floating about in that bewildering scrum you call a brain? Honestly, Simon, don’t try to bullshit me. Sword fighting? _You?_ You can't sew a goat's horn without nearly taking your own fingers off."

_She's not angry at me. Well, she is. But only because I left._ _I’d be hurt too, if she’d abandoned me like that._

Baz steps between us, impossibly graceful. He's out of place in this muddy yard, and everyone knows it but him.

"Allow me to explain," he begins, extending a hand that is quite deliberately ignored. "I'm afraid I bumped into your friend here quite by chance, and roped him into one of my absurd schemes. It's no surprise—I'm _notorious_ for my schemes, and five minutes well-spent with Simon here convinced me he was _made_ for my particular brand of trouble.” He doesn't look at me as he lies. (Which is a good thing, because I'm fairly sure my jaw's hanging somewhere around my knees.) “He's been very gracious about things, and all being well, he won't be kept from his work for much longer."

Penny looks him up and down with a look so withering, I'm surprised he doesn't shrivel up on the spot.

But if Penny's made of strong stuff, Baz is something entirely _other_.

"Who are you?" she snaps. “You look like an escaped acrobat.”

"Haz Jenkins," he counters immediately, and I have to stop myself from groaning into the muck. "Master tailor from the capital, here in your darling valley hamlet to scope out locations for a potential new shop front." He extends a hand again, loaded with gems and shine, and this time Penny takes it. (It looks like she's squeezing too hard, but Baz is far too proud to let the pain show.) (He's braver than I am. The Bunce death-grip is murderous.)

"Never heard of you."

"I would not have expected you to. I call myself a master, but mine is a middling affair at best, even in the royal city—it would take a fashion _wizard_ to rise above the flotsam there."

Just kill me. Please. May an errant goat take pity on me and end me right here and now, before it gets worse.

"What on earth could you want from _Simon_? He’s about as fashionable as a sack of potatoes."

And I feel like saying _hey, I'm here, I'm not_ that _bad._ (Am I?)

And then I think, _what_ does _Baz want from me?_ From where I'm standing (alright, slouching), he isn't getting much out of today. (He _did_ get to try a sour cherry scone.)

"I merely stopped in to visit the famous Ebb's Fromagerie, which as we all know, sells the finest goat’s cheese in the valley," Baz says blithely, not caring how I cringe. He obviously wasn't _that_ tired when I tucked him in yesterday—he's remembering almost every word I said. "And here, I happened upon a charming young man with the skill I require."

_The skill you require_ , I think desperately, having no fucking clue what he's about to say. Baz flicks a wrist in the direction of the shop's back door, and we all see what's lying there in the muck, propped up against the wall—a canvas bag full of clothes.

A canvas bag with a wonky goat face stitched on it.

"He's a visionary," Baz says, somehow keeping his face straight. (That absolute _bastard._ ) "A genius, trapped at the lofty peaks of his craft. I needed his embroidery in my shop—immediately, without delay. I dropped everything, made every accommodation imaginable to tempt him to my cause." He tips his head back, fully immersed in his new life as _Haz Jenkins, starry-eyed tailor about town._ "The clothes you're so taken with—my work, _his_ needle. Simon has breathed a rustic charm into my designs that was sorely missing before we met." His voice drops to a whisper as he ends with a flourish. "He is my _muse._ "

Penny shoots him a look of such utter contempt that I'm the one left shrivelling, on his behalf.

I'm also a bit stuck on the part where he called me Simon for the first time. Today truly is a surprise. Is the Baz I'm seeing now, spinning a new self from the air around him, the _real_ Baz—or did I meet him for the first time in bed last night? (That sounds weird.) (I mean, when I took him to bed and ate his soggy biscuits.) (Nope, that's worse.)

Maybe all versions of Baz are true. Smaller parts of the whole.

Maybe he wants me to know every part of him, and not only the flashy, glittery bits.

Haz Jenkins. That's who he is for now, but he's still Baz. It's quite amazing to listen to—creative, y'know. I was never that great at improvising. (Wait. Is this another part of his bloody theatre metaphor?)

“Simon holds reality in the eye of his needle. His work smacks of honesty—of everyday, thankless graft.”

Honestly, where _does_ he get this shit from?

Then I remember the mess in his room, and I'm less surprised. Who knows what dark nonsense came tumbling out of his mouth, long before he ever met me.

I wonder what lies he told Lamb.

I feel a stab in my stomach, and I know it's pointless, the jealousy. I shouldn't keep letting my mind go there, but I do.

_The Wraith only ever had lies from him. He knows_ nothing _true about Baz, not even his name._

_I know_ all _of his names._

_I know about his room and his baths and his teapot and I know he likes sour cherry scones, because I practically forced one down his throat this morning._

Alright. Good. The bad feeling's gone.

"Inside. Tea. Now. Talk." Penny's lips are pressed together in a line. She punctuates each word with a finger jabbed into my ribs, and she reminds me so much of my missing tail that I immediately bend to her will. (My tail's a fucking menace.) (Angry Penny is also frightening.)

"Not you!" she says, threatening Baz with a furious finger. "You can go elsewhere, Mr Jenkins. Find another defenceless goat herder to bother."

_Defenceless?_ In all fairness, Penny hasn't seen me with my claws. (Yet. When are they coming back?) (Is it going to be as she serves tea, because that would be a sad waste of a cup.)

“What's _Haz_ short for, anyway? Harry? Hampshire? Harasser?”

“Harbinger,” he drawls.

I have to roll my eyes. I _have_ to.

Penny dismisses him and Baz does as he's told, lifting an aggravating eyebrow at me before he gets his shiny boots thoroughly coated in mud, on his way to the gate.

And Penny? Penny points at the kitchen door and tugs me forwards by the hand.

It's _so good_ to see her. To hear her. To be shouted at by her.

I want to tell her how much, without telling her everything.

I crane my neck to catch the back of Baz's blue coat as he slips through the gate, already wondering when he'll come back for me.

What did he say earlier—something about a second act?

Without him, it's like I forget half my lines.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Penny knows how to make a cup of tea.

We're sitting on the floor of the shop, door jammed shut with a wedge of cheese, like we used to do on bad days. She's made it clear, in no fewer than ten inventive turns of phrase that would make Calcifer proud, that she thinks Baz is full of shit. She's looking at me like I'm made of glass, and if that's the case, she can probably see my insides bubbling and boiling.

Don't get me wrong, Penny's seen me on my worst days, and the dragon stuff's nothing compared to that. She'd be a bit shocked, but I reckon she'd accept it. She'd come around.

But she'd never accept that I've been squatting in the wizard Pitch's castle.

She'd never accept that I'm going to help him. (That I _want_ to help him.)

If I say too much she'll see through the lie more than she already has, and then there’s no chance of me leaving this shop alive. She'll tie me to the bed and call the doctor when my wings come back, blaming it all on the elusive tailor Jenkins. _He must have sewn them on, patched them out of lies!_

“Sorry, Simon—I love you. But you're not that good at embroidery.”

I huff, resting back on my elbows and letting the Earl Grey warm my stomach. “I must be better than you think.”

Penny sighs. “You're not, and we both know it. If you can fetch your sewing kit and produce more than a cross-eyed wonky half-goat, I'll bake you one cake a day for the rest of your life.”

“Don't fuck with me, Pen. Cake is not something to joke about.”

Still, I’d better change the subject. I ask after Gareth.

I was right about the conscription letter. He got one, too.

“He got into a fight with Mrs Weatherly over the price of a wedge, the morning I got _your_ unhelpful letter—and I do mean an actual fight, shoes were brandished and everything—and he said he'd had enough. The cheese stuff, the goat stuff, all of it. He said he'd rather take his chances in the war.”

“But he could _die_ ,” I argue. “It's not a bloody game—you've seen the warplanes! Conscription's reached as far as the coast, Penny—they're taking _children_ from Saltnook. Gareth is seriously so _dense_ sometimes.”

She frowns at me over the lip of her teacup. “Saltnook? How do you know the names of inconsequential coastal villages, Simon? You've the sense of direction of an upside-down signpost.”

I gulp down my tea, willing the lies to come a bit easier. “Haz told me about it. He's thinking about opening a shop there, after he's set up in the valley.”

“Is that right.”

It's not a question.

“I've told you before that you need to be careful. The wizard Pitch was sighted in the city again this morning—badly disguised as a peacock, by all accounts. You're not safe, travelling with a tailor...he can hardly protect you against a heart-eating wizard. What would you fight the wizard off with? A tape measure and an outdated seasonal catalogue?”

“I'm fine, Penny. I don't need protection. I've just got to help Jenkins with this one project, then I'll be back.” I turn my head to look at her. She's been working early mornings at the bakery, then driving up here to check on the goats and manage the shop in the afternoon. Gareth may have gone to war, but most of the other lads have escaped conscription for now. She's had the bright idea of incorporating goat's milk into one of the bakery's cheesecake recipes, and apparently it's going down a treat. Some of her bakery regulars have been making their way up the hill to buy cheese and yoghurt, and overall, business is brisk. “I'll come back, I promise. With my heart intact.”

She smiles, and I see her. Really _see_ her. Her tangled hair and bright eyes and energy that's ever on the edge of alarming.

“Simon. I want you to be safe.”

I pause because it's the sort of thing you need to think about before you say it.

It's a realisation.

“I am. Like, don't get me wrong, I'm a mess. I've always _been_ a mess, and I probably always will be. But...I'm safe. I promise.”

_I'm safe in the castle._

She purses her lips again, and between us we finish off a packet of ginger biscuits. (Only an animal takes tea without biscuits.) (Though some would say _we're_ the animals for pairing ginger biscuits with earl grey.)

“I don't believe a word you've told me, Simon Snow, but I suspect the truth is more than I can currently cope with, between my two careers and everything else. Behave yourself and come back soon, before I sell the farm off to the shepherds' union and wash my hands of you.”

I lean into her until our foreheads touch. I take her hand in mine and squeeze, enjoying the feel of her warm skin.

“Penny,” I breathe. She smells like lavender and memory. “You _hate_ the shepherds' union.”

“Troublemakers,” she huffs, though I see her cheeks lift. “Like you.”

“Like us.”

I sit back. Take her in. Think about how good it is to have her. To know she's alright.

_Ebb. Everything's alright._

She lifts her teacup in front of her face so I won't see her grin.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Later, I open the front door—there's a queue of disgruntled pensioners outside, smacking me with handbags and calling me a layabout. (I apologise my way past them.) Penny flips the sign in the window to OPEN and in they go, like flies to honey. (Or goats to cheese.) (No wait, that's wrong.)

I'm standing on the hillside, looking up at my grimy bedroom window and wondering what havoc Haz Jenkins can cause when left to his own devices, when fingers covered in rings touch upon my shoulder, and a low voice says in my ear,

  
  


“ _ **I'll build you a castle in the sky.”**_

  
  


I squeeze my eyes shut against the magic, and when I open them, he's there.

Beneath us, the city.

“Where are we?” I ask, even though I know.

We're on the roof of the bakery, smoke coiling up from a chimney. The sun's starting to dip now—I must have been talking to Penny for hours—and the sky's a rage of pink and red. It's Baz's hair and my scales, mixed together.

“I promised you a consistent metaphor, did I not? Here we are, at the final act,” he says softly, straightening his long legs over the tile. He tips his head back and my eyes follow the line of his neck, the tilt of his mouth. “The very last scene.”

“Is everything bloody metaphorical with you?”

He opens his eyes, and I wonder what the name is for this kind of grey.

“I would expect so.”

I sigh, digging my fingers under a piece of slate. (Actually, that's probably not a good idea. It's a steep drop to the cobblestones below, and I don't imagine I'd make a pleasant corpse.) I grip my bag of clothes, the last remaining pieces of the me who lived before magic. “Thank you.”

He smirks at me. _Going to play it like that, are we?_

“And what are we grateful for? Stuffed full of cheese and half-drunk on the fumes of it, I imagine.”

“Biscuits, actually.”

“Oh, what kind?”

“Ginger.”

“A fine choice.”

I laugh quietly, because I can't help it.

I'm sitting on a roof with a wizard, talking about fucking _biscuits_.

“Thank you for today. All of it. Spelling off my wings and...you know, the rest. Letting me see Penny.”

I know everything's alright. The shop's fine, the goats are being spoilt. I mean, Gareth went off to war, but there was bound to be a cost. (Maybe he'll be alright? He could sort of _nag_ the enemy until they surrender. Throw shoes at them.)

“You're welcome. It's a drawn-out apology, perhaps, but I did promise to provide temporary fixes, where possible. I hope today has proven somewhat medicinal...even though it appears to be drawing to a close.” As he says it, his eyes move over my back. I know my tail has returned without him telling me. (It curls around my face to poke me in the eye, so, yeah.) (Tosser.) “I hope you enjoyed the reprieve.”

“Yes,” I murmur, batting the damn thing out of my face. (I think it missed me. It's desperate for some sort of praise.) “Alright, fine, you git—nice to see you, too.” My tail calms down a bit, enough for me to lean my shoulder against Baz and say, “This was all very kind of you, you know? Very heartfelt.”

He does a bit more smirking at that. Then he's digging into his coat, not looking at me, pulling out something on a silver chain.

It's a teapot, delicate in silver.

He drops it into my hand and licks his lips.

“Baz,” I start, but he shakes his head.

“Not now, Snow. There’s your finale. And you can spare me the sentiment.”

“You called me Simon earlier,” I say, looping it over my head. It hardly weighs a thing. “When you were pretending to be that prat of a tailor.”

We both laugh then—Baz tips his head back and everything—and I think it's the first time I've heard him really let go like that.

It's wonderful. Loud and showy and obnoxious.

I love it.

I want to make him do it again.

I hold the teapot between my fingers, running my hand over smooth metal.

“If I need help, you'll hear me?” I ask, once we've both calmed down. He nods.

“I'll find you.”

_Find me._

We watch the city for a while, though the streets seem empty. Another warplane rumbles overhead and we watch it go, spewing black trails as it trespasses its way to the capital.

“Is there anything that can stop the Mage's war?” I ask, not expecting an answer. It's the sort of question he avoids.

“Yes,” Baz says faintly. “There is always an ending.” He sighs, brushing the day's dust off himself and standing, perfectly graceful with one foot either side of the rooftop's pointed peak. He holds out a hand to me and I take it, my wings bursting out of my back as I straighten, breeze catching in my hair. I flap them once to steady us.

I wouldn't admit it, but yeah, fine—I missed them.

Fuck the tail, though.

“Alas, a reprieve can only ever be temporary, and it appears this one is done. Let's get you back inside the castle before you combust and take this fine bakery out in a blaze of fury.”

I'm still holding his hand so I squeeze it, my newly returned claws pressing into his palm. He doesn't pull away. “I'd never willingly harm a cake.”

“Of course not.”

Behind his head, something opens in the dark. I spare a thought for the stragglers wandering in the square below. Have any of them noticed us up here, taking in the view?

The door opens on a familiar scene—Shepard by the fire, Summer at his feet. I step forward and they see us—Shepard waves, telling me to hurry before the dog clears my dinner plate. I laugh, stumbling, and Baz steadies me with an arm. I turn in the doorway and pull him, still gripping his hand, feeling my fangs push through my gums and over my lip. (I must look a bit silly, but again, he doesn't flinch.)

“Come on, Haz. Remember what I said yesterday? Eating won't hurt you.”

“No, I suppose not.” He pauses, running his eyes over me again. They catch on something at my waist. “What’s that in your pocket, Snow?”

I remember the letter I found earlier in the shop—my conscription orders. I pass the crumpled paper to him, and witness the moment that odd, frigid blankness steals over his features again. His other hand slips out of my grip.

“This won’t do.” His voice is stern. (Angry.)

“It’s not like I can actually sign up,” I snort. “Look at me.”

His eyes drift away from the page. “I am looking at you.”

I swallow. _Do you see me or the dragon?_

To be honest, sometimes I wonder if he’d even notice the dragony-bits, if I didn’t keep pointing them out.

He crumples the letter and sets it alight with a spark from his wand. “The only thing his words are worth is fire and smoke.” The blankness slips for a moment, and then it’s back, stealing all else from his face. “I apologise, Snow, if I gave the wrong impression about the reprieve.”

“What do you mean?”

“I led you to believe it was meant for you.”

“You what?” I frown up at him, hearing Calcifer crackle and spit behind me. (He must've told another awful joke.)

“A reprieve is a delay to a punishment, is it not? A suspension, to which there must come an end.” He sighs again, heavily this time, looking out over rooftops and brick. “The punishment is not yours.”

“Yes it is,” I say, because I love to argue. Because I want to be right. Because I don't like what it means, if I'm wrong. “The dragon stuff is my punishment. My _**cheese**_ — _fuck it all to hell._ ” I take a deep breath, hands clenching into fists. “You gave me a day, Baz. A day to be me.” A dragon’s reprieve. A promise.

Still, still, his smile is sad.

“The punishment is mine, and I take it now.”

He steps close, close enough to overwhelm me, close enough to make me step backwards across the threshold, slate exchanged for stone beneath my feet. I drop the bag and my clothes tumble out, grey on grey.

“What punishment? What are you talking about?”

Why does everything a wizard do and say have to be so bloody cryptic?

I fling an arm around him and pull him against me. My free hand—the scaled one—has the nerve to reach for his face, but he doesn't retreat. He lets me draw one claw along his cheek. (I'd never scratch him.) (I'd never hurt him.)

Like with Penny in the cheese shop, we lean into each other until our foreheads touch.

“Snow.”

“Pitch.”

“ _Simon_.”

“Baz?”

“ _No, it’s me_ — _Calcifer.”_

“Shut up, you luminous lowlife.”

His tongue on his lip. The words I somehow knew were coming.

“Snow, this doorway isn't for me. Not tonight.”

_The star door._

_He's going through the star door._

“No,” I say, twisting my hand into his coat. “No, come back to the castle. You've only just got rid of it, Baz—the dark lines have gone—you're _well_ again. Get some rest. More tea and biscuits. Fuck, I'll help you tidy your room, Baz, _anything._ Just… _don’t_.”

There's a moment in which I almost do something I can't take back.

Then the curtain falls, and there's no call for an encore.

“I'm sorry,” he says mechanically, withdrawing. “I'll return.”

_Yes, but from what?_

_How much of you will be left this time?_

He pushes his wand against me and says in my ear, _**“Home sweet home.”**_

I tumble backwards, landing awkwardly on my wings, cold stone and scattered clothes under my back. My tail lashes out for an ankle, but he hops away, out of reach.

“I have to,” he says. “I wasn't there last night. Things will be bad. Things will be _wrong.”_

There's not a word in my head that can stop him. No clever lines, no inspired improvisation.

_Are you being punished or are you punishing yourself?_

I'm dimly aware of Shepard on his knees beside me, arms under my own as he pulls me up. Summer's barking, Calcifer's sparking blue and green, and the door's slamming shut, dial settling on the cloud.

Everything's quiet in the castle. I touch the teapot around my neck.

And of the two hands I've held today, it's his I reach out for.


	6. Another man's tea

I couldn't sleep last night.

I mean, alright, I didn't really try. How was I supposed to feel in a restful mood when that prat was out there doing who knows what, alone in the dark? He still hasn't come back, even though the morning's long since passed us by. I've almost worn a channel in the kitchen floor with all my pacing, and Calcifer's about had enough of me.

“ _Sit down and occupy yourself, will you? File your claws or something. You're making me nervous.”_

_You should be nervous_ , I think. _We all should. One day he won't come back._

I tell myself he will this time. And when he comes back, he won't go out again until we've worked this out. Until I've helped him. (Baz is into all this metaphorical stuff, so he should appreciate the sentiment—a heroic dragon, rescuing the brave knight from the...well, from the night.) ( _My name is Simon Snow and I'm here to invert your mythology._ )

Once I've helped him fight off the darkness, he won't have to go through the star door ever again. He can board it up like he did the Saltnook door, and I'll scratch the star off the dial with my claws.

The frustrating thing is that no one in the castle seems concerned. Calcifer jokes with Shepard as they combine their talents to cook pancakes, and Summer is curled up quite happily under the table, dreaming of meadows and rabbits or whatever the hell magickal dogs dream about. (Rabbits coming out of hats?)

Am I supposed to sit here and _not_ worry about Baz?

Am I supposed to _not_ think about yesterday, when he let me butter his scone and spelled my wings off and lied to Penny about his career choices and draped me in magickal jewellery?

How am I supposed to not _think_ about that, with the weight of it fresh around my neck like a burden?

(On the roof. I think I nearly kissed him.)

How do I _not_ worry, when I don't know where he went or if he'll make it back?

(On the roof. I should've done it. Should've said _fuck it_ and leaned in, instead of letting him spell me away like a problem.)

How do we stay there? Take back the day and say the rooftop’s our fortress.

(On the roof. The things I should and all I didn't.)

I understand now why Baz avoids giving straight answers.

(Chase the dark away with kisses. Fill his head with thoughts of me and not the dark.)

They're too hard to find and never, ever fair.

I growl and pace, growl and pace. Calcifer tells me to be quiet, or he'll have me chained up outside as a guard dog. Such a threat naturally upsets Summer, who isn't in any sort of mood for derogatory canine humour—she jumps up to steal a pancake, doomed on its maiden voyage from frying pan to fireplace.

“ _Hey, that was mine!”_

Summer barks, I growl. Shepard shakes his head and tries again.

“Plenty more batter in the bowl, Cal—no need to get upset over a few cracked eggs.”

“ _Whose side are you on? I didn't ask for your level-headed logic, apprentice.”_

I grind my fangs. “Stick a log in it, Calcifer. Would Baz want you to be rude to _Shepard_ , of all people?” _You forget your (fire)place in this house._

“ _You know, Simon, if your future's not in castle security, we could loan you out as a tourist attraction instead. People will journey from all over the kingdom to see the wizard's bottomless pit of a gargoyle. They can put you in the stocks and pay to fling bacon at you.”_

I scowl and pace, scowl and pace, trying to ignore his sputtering laugh.

“ _Sorry, kid. When Basil's been gone too long I get anxious, and the insults have to go_ somewhere— _you’re the very definition of an unmissable target.”_ I must be looking pretty miserable, because he feels the need to prattle on. _“It's not like I can insult Shepard. It's you or the dog, and she fights back in a more literal sense.”_

I shrug, conceding the point. (Shepard's an angel among us demons.)

“ _He's been gone for longer than this, and he always came back. How many times do I need to tell you that? Don't curse yourself with caring, on top of everything else.”_

_Too late._

I grunt, rolling my shoulders, unable to listen to reason. There's smoke in my throat, coiling out of my nose as I stalk, claws clacking on the stone. After my third lap of the kitchen my tail loses its patience and wraps around my knees, sending me flying.

_Great. Even my own body is against me_.

The door knocks twice while I'm working myself into a frenzy, and neither knocks are Baz. Shepard shoos me into the kitchen because, in his words, I'm _frightening local children._ I start messing about on counter tops, picking up spoons and putting them down in the wrong place, doing absolutely nothing helpful because I _need_ to rebel, but at the same time don't want to do anything that would hurt Shepard's feelings. (I'm not _that_ much of a monster.)

I'm considering building a sandwich so tall it blocks out the sun and, hopefully, obliterates all feeling in my taste buds, when my eyes land on the cupboard under the sink. I remember the letter Baz hid in the trunk yesterday, at the end of The Great Post Burning.

I peer around at the others. (In the least subtle way imaginable.) Shepard's busy at the door with a customer, and Calcifer's tormenting the dog with a rhyme about unfetched sticks.

It happens quickly. My tail, apparently equally concerned for Baz's well-being (or maybe it sees an opportunity to cause trouble), wraps itself around the cupboard door, leaving me with both hands free to shove a fist inside the trunk and fish out the letter, abandoned at the bottom. Calcifer and Summer look around as I slam the door shut, but with my tail behind my back spearing the envelope, I get away with it. Shepard comes over to share a delightful customer anecdote, and I have the distraction I need to awkwardly side-step to the stairs, then run up them shouting something about _bathroom_ and _plumbing_ _emergency_. (Nobody questions it, and I don't blame them.)

At the top, I do a panicky dance I'd never want another living thing to see, and run out onto the balcony.

Outside, the wind whips some sense into me. Baz would be _furious_ if he knew I'd stolen his post, even though I maintain there's no harm done if he's not going to open it himself. Leaning against the railing, I coax the letter off the end of my tail, using a claw to slice it open. (Damn thing goes right through—there's probably nothing left to read anyway.)

I shouldn't feel bad. The letter's obviously important—it's the only one he didn't sacrifice to the gods of badly-named fake wizards, or what have you. Most likely he was planning to read it when he got back this morning, after a cup of tea and a four-hour long bath.

Well. It's not like I can sneak the letter back inside the trunk and pretend this never happened—my tail's made sure of that. Might as well read it and see what the Mage wants with him. After all, _he_ took care of _my_ unwanted letter last night. If you think about it, it's like I'm returning the favour. He'll _thank_ me for it. (After he's finished lecturing me about privacy.)

I unfold the piece of paper, tucking the ruined envelope into my trouser pocket. (It's strange being in my own clothes again. Shepard found a sewing kit in one of the rooms upstairs, and I've done a decent job of making proper holes for my wings.)

The letter doesn't make me feel any better about Baz's prolonged absence. It's in a different hand than the one that wrote the invitations—this one's in jagged black capitals, almost shouting its way off the page.

  
  


" **TO THE WIZARD BASTILON PITCH**  
REGISTRATION NUMBER 04161

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE REGISTRY  
ON BEHALF OF HIS GRACE, THE MAGE.

THE ABOVE NAMED SHOULD CONSIDER THIS LETTER LEGALLY BINDING NOTICE  
OF TERMINATION OF THEIR REGISTRATION AS A LEGAL TRADER OF MAGIC,  
IN THIS KINGDOM AND ANY OTHER.

IN ADDITION, A WARRANT HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR THE ABOVE NAMED,  
REQUIRING THEM TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGE BY THE END OF THURSDAY-NEXT,  
OR THEY WILL BE SUBJECT TO APPREHENSION BY METHODS UNPLEASANT.

THIS NOTICE HAS BEEN ISSUED IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE ROYAL POST OFFICE,  
WHICH HAS PROVIDED EVIDENCE SHOWING THAT AN ESTIMATED 749 LETTERS  
HAVE GONE UNANSWERED and/or UNDELIVERED."

  
  


I crumple the paper, shoving it into my pocket so I don't have to look at it. I know that capital letters make everything seem angrier, but I don't think it would be any better printed in a timid lowercase.

My first thought: _Baz can't sell spells anymore. The shop front, the business, Shepard_ — _all of it, gone._

My second thought: _Is it legally binding if his name's spelt wrong? Because there's definitely no wizard here named_ BASTILON.

What would Baz do, if he wasn't registered anymore? Wander the Waste and the wilds in his castle, engaging in menial labour? ( _N_ _ever_.) Maybe he'd cross the border and start a new life in the next kingdom over. Call himself _Thaz the Exiled_ , or something equally melodramatic. I mean, I imagine Summer would be alright—she'd become some sort of mythological hound that terrorises slow-walkers after dark...but Shepard? He’d be lost. And Calcifer, confined to the life of an ordinary fire? If Baz really _is_ arrested for not RSVPing to his ( _hundreds of!_ ) invitations, Calcifer might even be confiscated. Locked up in some sort of demon deposit box in the depths of the Mage's palace...

No. Like Baz said last night on the roof, _this won't do._

I pull the letter out again and smooth it against the railing. (And I mean, how effective do they expect it to be, sending a termination letter to a man who has never once looked a postage stamp in the eye?)

I shake my head, choking back a frustrated burst of flame. _Not only would he have left this letter to rot, but even if he_ had _read it, he'd never willingly meet with the Mage._ The look on his face last night when he saw my conscription orders…

_The only thing his words are worth is fire and smoke_.

I feel a shudder ripple through my wings. _Thursday-Next_ …yesterday was Thursday. I think. Has he already missed the deadline? Another shudder, this one far more violent.

_What if they took him?_

_What if he_ did _come back last night, but they accosted him at the door?_

No. _This won't do._ This bloody well will _not_ do. The Mage and his stupid Office of the Registry are not taking magic away from _my_ wizard. (Look, we've talked about this. One of these days it's going to slip out, and he'll move his castle fifty miles away from _you_.)

I'm still fighting off fire, fear and anger hot in my chest. I’m wondering how disastrous it would be if I hung over the railing to spit flames into the misting air, when the door to the balcony opens behind me.

I don’t have to look. I know it isn't him.

(Baz smells different after he's been through the star door. Like night and spice and question marks.)

“Simon, want something to eat? It'll make you feel better. I'll let you butter Calcifer’s pancakes?”

I choke down the burn and follow Shepard downstairs, the only thoughts in my head a slow carousel of _termination_ and _warrant_ and _unpleasant_. As we reach the last step I notice something draped over the bannister…

…and I think that's when it forms. (The diabolical plan, I mean.) The sort of thing I'd accuse Baz of plotting when he's looking at me with his eyebrows about to crawl free of his face.

I fold Baz's cloak over my arm and when, at the bottom of the stairs, I spy the sky-blue headscarf on top of a leaning tower of books, I take it as further encouragement. _Your_ _sinister and seriously short-sighted plot has the universe’s approval._ I pull the cloak over my shoulders and inwardly beg my wings to keep still. My tail wraps itself around my waist, and when I ask if it's going to behave, it gives a gentle squeeze.

Calcifer's putting up a fight against Shepard, who bears a disarming smile as he arms himself with a frying pan. _“You can't cook on me again until Baz gets home_ — _I'm_ his _cursed affliction, not yours_.” Summer gets involved by stealing a punnet of blueberries, and the ensuing squabble is the distraction I need to edge towards the castle door without notice, struggling into a pair of old boots. When the dial spins and a customer from the royal city barges in, demanding to know where her husband's headache cure is, I shuffle into position.

_Cloak, scarf, good intentions. That's going to have to do._

I don't say anything, and I try not to feel guilty as Calcifer calls to me, seeing through my ruse. I slip through the open door, immediately bombarded by a hundred unfamiliar sounds, and almost get knocked over by a predatory bicycle as it goes skidding past at a great rate.

With shaking hands, I knot the scarf under my chin and hope that everyone in the capital will be too wrapped up in their lives to pay attention to me, shuffling along awkwardly under the weight of my worry.

I don't look back to see if Shepard's on the doorstep. (Honestly, Shepard wearing a disappointed look would about break my heart.) I don't need to feel any worse about what I'm doing—I know it's a stupid idea...but if there's a chance Baz has been arrested by the Mage (or, worse, the Post Office—that pillar of societal evil), then I _have_ to help him. There's no happy ending to this story—either Baz is out there in the darkness, hurt and alone, or he's here in the capital, being bollocked by an offended jury of delivery men.

_I'll find you,_ I think. _Because if it were the other way around, I know you'd find me. (_ Of course, if it really _were_ the way around, I would've opened my fucking post.)

My fingers touch upon the silver teapot. I pull the spout but nothing happens—there’s no shiny wizard appearing before me, chasing away my fears with the sheer majesty of his sneer.

I swallow my growing panic. _He must be in trouble._

If, by chance, he isn’t—if he’s at the palace of his own accord, settling matters with the registry—then I can hobble back to the castle before Calcifer scorches the streets in pursuit of me.

_I'll go to the palace. Make peace with the Mage and the postal service. Look for Baz._

_And if he's there, come what may, I'm taking him home._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The royal city, I learn, is an unforgiving barrage of bright—colour, noise, the press of bodies—everything smothering everything else, heels clicking over stone, children calling out to unseen faces. An old man crowds a doorway with a gang of demanding dogs, feeding them chunks ripped from a stick of bread. A mother hassles me, one child hiked up on her hip and another trailing behind, more taken with the cracks in the pavement than what might be passing her by. On all sides motorcars and carriages roll, pulled by horses straining at their bits.

How does anybody sleep in this din?

How does anybody cross the road without drawing up a will and reciting it aloud as they step off the kerb?

Most of the traffic seems to be heading in the same direction, so I fall in line with the rabble, keeping my steps short and head down, trapped wings thrashing against my back. I've lost track of days since finding the castle, but I’m sure today is Friday—the day of the Mage's war assembly...there's no military parade like there was in the valley, but I can see children clutching those same flags and pennants, an old man trailing a banner behind him in the dust. Two planes pass over as I make it to the end of the street, their shadows casting a temporary silence over the otherwise chattering citizens.

“They bombed us last night,” I hear one man say to a boy. “And this morning, we bombed them right back. It's the natural way of things.”

Another man takes my arm and insists on helping me across the street. “All this over a bloody princess, can you believe? Still, with the wizards on board, there's no way for us to lose. Our army's far bigger, and after last night, we've more planes left in the sky. Praise to the Mage, eh, Mother?”

I feel ill, hearing him talk about war like it's inevitable, like it’s worthy of worship. After he veers off along a side street, I pull my scarf down closer, hoping for no further company.

I try to remember what Shepard told me about the royal city, his useful facts and cheery voice echoing in my head like a particularly optimistic chorus. He was right about one thing—everything's _bigger_ here than in the valley. The buildings are taller, colours louder. It makes people seem small, like specks of life that mill without meaning.

I follow the crowd to the end of a wide street, which opens onto a cobblestone plaza lined with lampposts and fountains. (Well, I say follow—I'm more jostled really, elbows and ankles and wings all bumped and banged by strangers with no want to know where they're going.) I stand in the plaza, listening to people cheer and looking up at the most impressive building I've ever seen. It’s as tall as it is wide, with rows and rows of windows, built of soft grey stone with vines creeping all over. Towers and turrets stick out at odd angles, and the roof’s tiled prettily in purple and green.

The Mage _lives_ here?

Well, he's a modest sort of unelected dictator, isn't he?

I become aware of another persistent ankle jostler, gnawing at my tendon. I kick my foot back, spinning around as I hear a familiar yip of disgust, finding myself faced once more with golden fur and rebellious brown eyes.

“ _Summer?”_ I hiss. “What are you doing here? Go back to the castle!”

That's all I need, on top of the Baz-worry. A fun day out in the capital city, dog-sitting a fugitive. Still, she's here now, isn't she? And instead of making a break for it, she followed me. (And nearly dug clean through to my ankle bone, by the feel of it.) I try to out-stare her, but she's still annoyingly good at it, so I give in and roll my eyes instead.

“If Shepard sent you to find me, I'm afraid you're in for a long day. I can't go back until I know Baz is safe.” I'm not too concerned if anyone sees me having a conversation with a dog. The _mad old bat_ look is what I need to cultivate to keep the crowds away. She nods her head, floppy ears touching the ground. “Stay close and behave yourself, and we might make it out alive. How does that sound?”

She yaps in what I hope is agreement, following meekly as I shuffle through gaps between people, slowly making my way towards what about _has_ to be the palace, given the sheer bloody size of it. _(A building built to house egos.)_ When we reach a gate flanked by two green-uniformed guards, I reach under Baz's cloak for the stolen letter, and hold it out with a shaking hand. (The shaking is good—it adds to the overall effect.)

“May we help you, madam?”

I croak in what I hope is a convincing manner, “I'm here on behalf of the wizard Pitch. I must make his excuses to the Mage and apologise to the postman.” I hesitate. “I'm his mother. And he's awful, simply _awful_ at keeping track of his letters.”

The guard squints at Baz's notice, eyes growing wide. “Seven hundred and...? Oh, that’s bad.” He bends to get a brief look at my face, stepping back and whispering something to his fellow guard about _highly contagious_ _scaly bird pox._ He ushers me through the gate, insisting I keep my face and other such horrors to myself. _Look ghastly enough, and you too can stroll into just about any high-security government residence._ Summer barks once as I push the returned letter inside the waistband of my trousers. (Nobody's going down _there_ without good reason.) (Also, not without my permission.)

“Go up the steps and see the secretary,” the second guard calls, not looking at me. “Any postal disputes are being heard in the ground floor parlour.”

_Ground floor parlour_. Is that what parlours are for, disputes? Does the Mage live here alone, or do the staff stay when the offices close for the day? It seems like a waste for one person. (But then, Baz did build an entire castle for his own benefit. Although he's not opposed to taking in strays, so at least he shares the space.)

I take my time approaching the start of a torturous flight of stairs, carpeted in the bloodiest red. It stretches up and out of sight to where the palace doors await, a pinprick above me.

“Great,” I groan. “An architectural power move.” I can't imagine the Mage needs all these steps for anything else. He probably likes seeing his guests drag themselves to the top, dripping in sweat and practically dying for a cup of tea.

On my right, I see a wizard arguing with a guard. (I assume that's what he is—he's wearing enough sodding glitter for one.) (Must be one of the requirements.) He's handing his wand to a demanding man in green, protesting all the way. _No magic in the palace_. _The Mage's word is final._

There's no sign of Baz anywhere. (I haven't overheard anyone introducing themselves as _Caz Flamingo_ , at any rate.) I touch my teapot necklace again, hoping against hope he’ll appear, but he doesn’t.

I start up the first step.

It's hard to move my legs under the cloak—I have to put both feet on a step and lean into it. I'm sweating before I'm more than a few metres from the ground, the guards either side of the staircase watch me struggle with stony faces. Summer runs on head to bark me over each doddering milestone.

_Fucking dog._

_Fucking stairs._

_Fucking wizards._

They pass me on either side—four of them, chattering excitedly over my head about their hopes for the meeting. None of them pay me the blindest bit of notice, slapping each other on the back and talking battle spells as they take the steps two at a time. They're all dressed smartly, shining in their boots and capes, though none of them have got a patch on Baz. (Their manners don't seem to amount to much, either. I mean, I know I'm not _really_ an old lady in turmoil, but _they_ don't know that.)

Finally a gentleman among wizards arrives, pushing an elegantly clad arm through mine and murmuring in my ear, “May I help you ever onward, Mother?”

“Yes,” I croak, even though it's risky. Maybe a wizard wouldn't be _that_ surprised by my appearance—they probably see a dozen weirder things each day they do business. With the man's help I quicken my pace, not daring to look up in case the guards get a look and make another smart comment about bird pox.

“Such an honour, isn't it?” the man says. “To be invited here, amongst such fine company. I've waited _years_ for this day.”

I hum my agreement, hoping he's mistaken me for an elderly colleague, out and about for one last war-mongering hurrah. There's something familiar about his voice, and I'm thinking about that when I notice something strange about his shoes.

Lace. Ribbon. Decades-old frills.

_Even his shoes are frilly._

I stop dead on the stairs, violently sure of the man's identity. I'm about to feign an excuse to go back downstairs, when my tail awakens from its slumber and darts out to enact its revenge. It moves too fast for the guards to see—the man stumbles and falls on his face, floppy hair spilt on the steps like a stain. Two blue eyes flash furiously, teeth like scythes.

_Lamb._

I need to stay calm.

_Wraith._

Fire in my lungs.

_A waste of a man._

I choke on the growing smoke, which at least adds character to my role. (A hacking cough never hurt anybody.) (Well. Probably did, actually.) I'm doubled over on the steps, watching the Wraith as he finds his feet. He tidies his hair before fixing me with a dazzling _(disturbing)_ smile.

“I'd know my own handiwork anywhere,” he murmurs, grabbing my wrist and dragging me up the next step. “Come, Mother,” he announces loudly for the guards' benefit. (And likely his own—he clearly fancies himself a showman, seeing as he's dressed today like a vulgar tea cosy.) “Allow me to assist you the rest of the way.” His arm clamps over mine and I can't get free. My tail's lashing under the cloak, and I will it to stop before the entire bloody palace guard sets upon me in panic.

“Let go,” I growl, “or I'll set your trousers on fire, you twat.”

Lamb grins at me, patting the back of my scaled hand. Four of his vampire soldiers fall into step behind us, faces smashed and tangled as they drag themselves up the stairs. The Wraith has no wand to surrender at the gates—his magic must come with him into the palace, and I'm sure the moustachioed masses were _thrilled_ about that.

I grit my teeth and focus on the climb, urging Summer ahead of me. (She keeps turning her head to snarl at Lamb, though her teeth aren't anywhere near as sharp.)

“Enjoying my curse, little snake?” He's regained his composure, smiling and waving at another wizard who trots past us on our left. “And where, might I ask, is the elusive wizard Watford? Already in his important meeting with the Mage, perhaps?”

His eyes are practically afire with curiosity. I feel a stab of satisfaction, knowing he still doesn't have Baz's real name.

_You and Chaz deserve each other._

_And by that I mean Chaz is a bleeding half-hearted fantasy at best, and you’re welcome to him._

It's strange. A few days ago I would've given anything for this, to be close enough to the Wraith that I could finally demand my freedom from him.

Now I only want to be away. Back in the castle. Safe with a wizard and his entourage.

“Chaz isn't here,” I mutter, taking another precarious step. We're nearing the top now, and sweat is pouring down my face. Lamb's perfect, pearly skin has also developed a sheen—and is that a _rattle_ I hear, seizing his chest? “He's sent me in his place. He's a coward, you see, so the Mage won't have much use for him. I'm here to make his excuses, renew his registration, then bugger off home.”

“ _Home.”_ He's smiling, though his mouth is pinched at the corners. He's feeling the climb. (And no doubt entertaining all sorts of bad thoughts about me.) “How lovely. Here I was thinking I'd done Chaz a favour, bringing out the murk in you...instead, I've brought you closer together. How _charming_.”

He's looking at me like he wants to eat me.

_Yeah. Go on. Fucking try it. I think you'll find I taste mostly like smoke, these days._

“Why don't you take your _**masterful artwork**_ off me, then maybe Chaz won't like me as much?”

He's clearly considering it, jaw working as he runs the possibilities over in his mind. But then he says the one thing I've dreaded he might say, now I've finally caught up with him. “I'm no wizard, like our dear friend. My magic is of an older, less refined sort—I'm afraid I can do little about _undoing_ a curse. Terribly sorry about that, old chap.”

Sorry? _Sorry?_

He doesn't sound sorry at all.

We reach the top of the stairs and tumble over, panting and heaving in a heap on the plush carpet. Summer nudges my nose with hers, snapping at Lamb's fingers when he reaches out to touch her.

“Another lovely lost thing,” he laughs, clawing at one of his minions until it pulls him to his feet. I'm surprised the stairs were such a struggle for him—he's older than me, sure, but by what, ten years? Fifteen, at a push? Considering he's an evil parasite brought forth from the wastelands to torment me, he looks young and fit. But maybe it's harder for vampires, this cardiovascular stuff. (They don't really have heartbeats to raise, do they?)

The Wraith flaps a hand at a passing guard—this one's dressed in full, formal uniform, with a thick, ugly moustache above his lip—definitely one of the Mage's men. Lamb demands to be taken to the Weeping Tower immediately, but the soldier directs him to an open door inside the main entrance instead.

“Ground floor parlour. All wizards are to wait for a personal appointment.”

_Ground floor parlour._ I frown. Wasn't that where the postal disputes were happening? Maybe it's a really big parlour. I glance up at the building again—it's possible there are hundreds of _parlours_ and _lounges_ and _state rooms_ and _pantries_ in this place. (I missed out on lunch, so yeah, my mind's beginning the slow, inevitable drift towards food.) (I need to hurry and find Baz before Lamb starts to resemble a...well, a leg of lamb.)

“I am _not_ a wizard,” he bristles, still struggling to draw breath. He slicks his hair back from his face, and his hand comes away wet with sweat. (He's in even worse shape than _I_ am.) “Announce to the Mage that the Wraith of the Waste is here, as per his _special request_. I am a busy man and do not have an entire day to waste in this sewer of a city.”

I wonder what Lamb does for work all day. Do vampires require regular employment? You'd need the sort of job where you get to meet lots of people (so you can eat them), but that doesn't require you to be all that friendly.

Come to think of it, Lamb might make a good postman.

Summer nips my heel—she must have caught me drifting. The soldier is nodding, muttering something placating to Lamb, heels clicking together smartly as he moves past us. I'm soundly ignored, which is perfect, and I finally find the strength in my knees to stand, rubbing at a sore spot on my lower back.

“Is your new spine less than suitable?” Lamb asks, smirk firmly in place once more. “I could try again—I'd only need a taste.”

“Put your tongue anywhere near me and I'll rip it out.”

He flicks his hair out of his eyes, unsure what to make of that.

“Where's the parlour?” I growl. “I need to find Chaz and fuck up a postman.”

“Are you his errand boy?” he asks, hands once again smoothing through auburn hair. “His _apprentice_?”

Lamb seems to have regained as much control of himself as he can. (His mouth clearly isn't any worse for wear.) He smooths his suit jacket—quite smart, actually, in cream—and holds out an arm again. I take it, because even though he's a colossal dickhead, I don't know how far I'll get on my own, hunched over like this. “Come then, _Mother_ —we wouldn't want the wizard Watford resorting to a life of crime, would we? Dealing on the black market like a lowly hedge sorcerer.” He leans in close as we pass through the doors, another pair of identical guards bowing and closing them behind us. His tongue—cold, hard—licks a line along my ear as he hisses, _“And I will be leaving another message for you to pass along to Chaz. Where would you like it, this time? Here again, on your neck?”_

I jerk away, his icy fingers pressing on the place he nipped me. (Where he _cursed_ me.)

“Keep your fucking fingers to yourself.”

“Now, now— _language._ ”

I scowl. “Think you're proper hard, don't you?”

“What's that?”

“Going about in your carriages with your...your weird mates, there! Biting people, licking people, turning them into what they're not. _Real_ classy.”

He sneers, tugging at his lapels and muttering something to one of his soldiers. I'm waved away with a hand, and it's just as well, because there's nothing else to say to him. I look around at the room instead, realising that the parlour we've been pushed into is cavernous.

It's also empty.

“Where's the secretary?” I ask, voice echoing off the walls. I don't like this. Where are the wizards that passed us on the stairs? Where are the angry postmen? Did the Mage take them all into his office for some kind of intensive group interview?

Baz's letter crinkles against my stomach. The Wraith's soldiers entered the parlour with us, and they line up along one wall, expressionless as their boss paces before them. Above their heads I see a line of framed portraits, stretching around the room to tall, white-framed windows. I go to them, noticing as I draw near that all of the paint is faded with age. Are they former secretaries? Wronged postal workers from a time gone by? I can't see Baz in any of them. One of the portraits shows a woman in a dark blue dress, with long black hair and familiar grey eyes. I stand and look at her for a long moment, only noticing the crucial detail when I'm about to turn away.

A silver teapot necklace, delicate against her age-faded neck.

Baz's mother. It has to be.

I'm staring at her as Lamb approaches again, paying the parlour's artwork no mind and instead snatching the scarf from my head.

“Give that back!” _It's not yours. It's wrong in your hands._

“Let me look at you,” he murmurs, lashing out at the cloak and ripping it from my neck. “I'll see what I've made of you.”

My wings unfold and my tail uncurls itself. It feels good to stretch, even though the doors could open any moment. The Wraith walks a slow circle around me, his mocking laughter surely all I'll be hearing in my head tonight, when I'm trying to sleep to forget.

“Interesting, aren't you? Still a tad shabby, mind.”

“You're a twat,” I say. “Just so you know. In case your mates aren't reminding you on a daily basis.”

He stops in front of me and assesses me coolly, one finger curling under his bottom lip. “Truly, you're an eyesore. To think even _this_ can't keep Chaz away.” I recognise the look. He's jealous, like I am. We'd probably be able to sit down and have a good laugh about it over a cup of tea, if he weren't such a fucking berk. “I will have it from you now, lad.”

There must be a clock somewhere in the parlour—I can hear it ticking, echoing the seconds of silence that gather between us.

“You what?”

For a moment I think he's talking about the letter in my trousers. (Which he absolutely _won't_ be getting his hands on. He'll take one look at Baz's real name and lose his shit.) (Also, he's just generally not going anywhere near my trousers.)

“Give it to me,” he says calmly. His mouth is a small, round threat. “Now.”

_You can't have it,_ I think, clutching the paper through fabric. _You can't have who he is._

“I want Chaz's heart,” he says plainly, as though he's asking for the time of day, or a throat lozenge. “I had a claim on it long before he met _you_ —it's mine. His heart belongs to _me_.” He holds out his hand, palm up and open. His skin is covered in lines, etched deep as though sliced a hundred times with time's knife. He sees me grimacing and snatches it away. “ _Now_.”

“I don't have it,” I say honestly. “I don't have his heart.”

“ _Liar_ ,” he seethes, walking around me again. Inspecting me from all angles. “I can smell him all over you.”

I feel red burning my cheeks. “The cloak—it's his, I borrowed it. I needed to cover my wings so I wouldn't get arrested during the walk. Dragon stuff, you know.” I flutter them for emphasis. “Give me the scarf, Lamb.”

“Ah,” he says, eyes shining. “So he's told you about me, has he? Our long and storied past? And to think, _I_ don't have the pleasure of knowing _your_ name.”

I grit my teeth, imagining all the ways I'd rip up that past, if I could only get my claws on it.

The cloak's on the floor, but he's still letting sky-blue run through his fingers. He dangles the scarf in front of my face and tries to snatch it out of the way, but doesn't reckon on my claws being quicker—one snags in the corner of the fabric, and even though I feel bad about ripping it, at least I know I can sew it back together later.

“Fine,” Lamb says haughtily, tossing back his head. “You can keep the scarf. It's hardly my colour. Now, be a good deformity and hand over Chaz's heart before I force it from you.”

“I don't _have_ his heart! Get that through your fucking undead skull, yeah?” I push the scarf into my pocket, squeezing it with my fingers.

What does that even _mean,_ anyway? Am I supposed to be carrying Baz’s heart around in a jar? Is this another morbid bloody wizard metaphor I don't understand?

He presses in too close, like he did in the doorway of the cheese shop—I huddle against the wall, wings making their mark. I'm not _scared_ of him, but there's something not right with this bloke—he's manic, too much and nothing at the same time.

“ _Give it to me.”_

“Fuck. _Off._ ” I push him. “I wouldn't give it to you, even if I _did_ have it.” (I'd keep it.) (Keep it safe.) “You're way too demanding and you _don't_ respect locked doors.”

Lamb bears his teeth at me, clamping a hand around my neck—for a second I think he's going to throttle me, but then his cold, wrinkled fingers catch on the chain around my neck. I push forward into him, trying not to choke, but also worried the chain will snap. I pinch his wrist with my claws until he bleeds and lets go, glowering at me as he licks his wound. (Literally. _Ugh._ )

I cradle the teapot in my hand. _I had to race a lanky wizard up the stairs for this._

Lamb reaches for it again, but my tail is ready, wrapping around his wrist. He's the one struggling now, battling my marauding rudder while at the same time trying not to mess up his hair. (Tosser.)

“Liar,” he says to me, once he's finally free and at a respectable distance. _“Liar.”_

_Punch him,_ a voice says, somewhere far back in the crook of my skull. _Why not? Not like things can get much worse, and you'll feel better._ (Tail, is that you?)

I'm considering the further merits of smacking the Wraith silly when a door at the far end of the parlour opens, and a man in green steps through. At first I think he's another one of the palace's anonymous soldiers—the Mage's men—because he's wearing the same green tunic and brown boots, and he's got a ridiculous moustache taking over his face. (Though this one's pencil-thin, and not much like a caterpillar at all.)

But then he steps closer and I see medals flashing on his chest, a feather in his hat, a golden sword in his belt. And I think the Wraith and I have probably almost come fang-to-fang in front of the Mage himself.

Ruler of the kingdom, collector of wizards, maker of wars.

(Also committed defender of the Post Office, apparently.)

He's not much. At least, he's not what I was expecting. (What _was_ I expecting?) (I _did_ think he'd be taller.) He's got a dimple in his chin that makes me think of Lamb standing on his tiptoes, taking a nick out of his face with a tooth. The vampire soldiers are far more formidable to look at, though they don't have a spoonful of brains between them.

“Gentlemen,” he says, in a voice no more than ordinary. (How disappointing.) He holds out a gloved hand to Lamb without taking his eyes off me. “The Wraith of the Waste, punctual as expected and dressed for a dead century—and who's this? _Y_ _ou_ are entirely unexpected. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

I gulp, mind scrambling for a sensible fake identity. There was no chance to cover myself with the cloak before he saw me, so everything’s out on display. (For some reason, he doesn't look disgusted.) (He's got the same look Shepard has, when he's about to whip out a notebook.) All I can think about is _Haz Jenkins, tailor of leisure_ , and how Summer is no longer in the room with us. Did she escape through the door the Mage opened? Shepard's going to be furious if I lose her. (Well, maybe not furious. Mildly depressed?)

I’m still stuck for an answer to his question. I can't exactly tell the Mage I'm Baz's mum, can I?

My mouth's flapping helplessly when Lamb comes unknowingly to the rescue, saying, “He's the pet of the wizard Watford, here to make accusations of cowardice on his behalf.”

The Mage looks me over again, hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “Cowardice? Well, that _does_ warrant discussion. No space for cowards on our rosters. Please, walk with me, gentlemen—I have a much more comfortable room upstairs prepared for our little tête-à-tête. Your associates may join us,” he adds to Lamb, who then signals to his minions to follow.

“Uh,” I start, backing away, “um, that’s alright, I—I was here to find Chaz. But if he’s not here, or—or if he’s already been…?”

The Mage smiles with his entire face. (Even, somehow, his nostrils.) “Nonsense! I haven’t been informed of the wizard Watford’s arrival. Please, stay and talk with us for a while—if your master should show up for his appointment, he’ll be _most_ pleased with your industriousness.” He quirks an eyebrow at me, pulling a thick wave of brown hair out of his face. “Tell me, is it Post Office problems?”

“Um, yeah,” I mutter, not sure how much it’s wise to reveal.

Lamb, inspecting his fingernails, says, “Chaz has _always_ been a disappointing correspondent.”

“I insist you join us,” the Mage says, holding out a hand to me. (I ignore it.) “Please, upstairs with you.”

_I don't like_ _this. Not at all._

Everything in me is _screaming,_ imploring me not to go upstairs with them. But if Baz _is_ here somewhere, trapped and interrogated, I have to find him. The Mage is making it quite clear, through his smiles and courtesy, that I have no choice but to behave.

Fingers on the teapot. _Pull it again_ — _summon him, and then you'll know._

I swallow. Lamb is watching me carefully, eyes lifeless. (Makes sense. He _is_ dead.)

_No. If he isn't already here, I can't risk it now._ The Mage is running his eyes over my wings, muttering to himself. _Too many starving things in the room._

I look around for Summer, trying to act casual so the Wraith doesn't grow even more suspicious, but she's nowhere to be seen. I follow them through the door in the far wall to find the beginnings of a staircase—it reminds me of the stairs in the castle, stone spiralling upwards. Lamb curses to himself ( _ha!_ ) then starts up ahead of me, clinging to the bannister. I shadow him, claws chipping at wood and stone as I haul myself along. The vampire soldiers drag themselves after us, eyeless and groaning.

What was the place mentioned on the invitations? The Weeping Tower? It's probably called that because of the emotional state guests are left in, after they've climbed all these blasted stairs.

The Mage doesn't say another word to us as we walk, and I'm left wondering about the other wizards and where they might be. Did they get a personal reception like this? Perhaps the Wraith really _is_ an important guest.

_(Or maybe The Mage is more interested in me.)_

I'm worried about Baz. If he's in this tower, tied up and beaten by spurned postal workers, I _have_ to save him.

But I don't feel good about this climb. I'm starting to worry about myself, too. (My tail creeps up a shoulder to rub against my face, in what it probably thinks is a reassuring way.) (Fucking thing's scratched my cheek to shit.)

My wings smack off walls—the staircase is narrow and not well lit—and I'm glad when we reach the end of it, emerging into another carpeted corridor papered in lavish patterns. Lamp light leads the way as we follow the Mage past ornate closed doors, paintings of idyllic scenes placed between each one—fields, sheep, valleys, cliffs—eventually stopping in front of an open door. He dips his head, removing his hat and welcoming us into a cosy, darkened study.

I've got no idea where we are anymore, in terms of the palace, the parlour and the front doors. I feel as though we climbed many flights of stairs, but without a window, I can't know for sure. Is this another of the Mage's power moves, removing any sense of where you are in this maze of a place?

“Gentlemen,” he says again, and I'm really starting to hate that word. “I'm afraid there aren't enough chairs, and so we must resort to the old adage of _age before beauty_.” He smiles at me, but I can only grimace back. “Lamb, do sit. Rest.”

The Wraith leers as he saunters over to a high-backed chair by the fireplace, a table nearby laid with two ready-poured cups of tea. (Way too milky for my liking.) He sits down, rubbing the cuffs of his jacket, and takes a long sip from one of the cups, sighing contentedly into its depths. Outside in the corridor he was slumped against the door frame—all these are stairs are _really_ running him ragged, and he's looking more haggard by the minute—but he's satisfied now, opening his eyes to address the Mage as though I'm not here.

“Such an honour, Davy,” he says, placing the cup on the table with nary a clink, and folding his elegant hands in his lap. He settles back in the chair, crossing one ankle over the other. (His legs are nowhere near as long as Baz's, so the overall effect's not up to much.) “My men have fed well all year, and we're strong in numbers. As per the treaty, we have limited our night time sojourns to towns and cities away from the capital.” Lamb's eyes are sparkling, but I think it's with nerves more than anything else. The Mage is someone he desperately wants (needs?) to impress. “Davy, I believe I can be of great to help to you in this war.”

The Mage (Davy?) smiles at him indulgently, leaning against the fireplace. He looks at me and winks, and I wonder if it's because he too thinks Lamb is an idiot. For a moment there's solidarity between us—two men, willing to overlook the minor intrusion of dragon parts, both of them more than this tired old vampire.

And then it changes.

The Mage's fingers twine around a small, stoppered bottle on the mantelpiece, pulling free a cork and stepping up to the side of the chair.

“I agree, old friend. You will prove most useful, indeed.”

Lamb smiles with his person teeth, and it's quite radiant. For a brief, ludicrous flash I wonder if that's who Baz was friends with, before he chose stalking and cursing and terrible poetry as his life's calling. He looks _happy_ , like he knows some sort of peace and purpose.

Then it happens.

The moment the Mage drops the cork onto the carpet, Lamb’s vampire soldiers collapse into rags and ashes. I startle, tripping over my tail and ending up on my back, my face inches away from what so recently walked and moaned and writhed.

“What the _fuck_?”

Lamb frowns with distaste at his fallen disciples, bringing the teacup to his lips for another sip. “How strange…I didn't tell them to go anywhere. Davy, do you have wards in the palace?”

“No,” the Mage says lightly, placing one hand around the back of the Wraith's neck. My eyes flick between their strange scene by the fire and the dead things on the floor. The Mage's other hand forces the neck of the bottle into Lamb's open mouth. The teacup drops to the carpet. “That's it, now. Do your duty for the kingdom.”

Something comes over Lamb, and I realise with a jolt of horror what it is.

_Black lines. Black veins._

_Dark magic._

I crawl away from them as the lines take over the Wraith's face, stealing the blue from his eyes. He doesn't struggle—he gags once against the bottle, splattering the insides with black, and then sits motionless, eyes closed, slumped in the high-backed chair.

“Why would I want your worthless vampires in my war? My reputation would never recover. Your kind is part of the problem, the very scourge that threatens me.” The hand around the back of Lamb's neck comes away, covered in strands of greying hair. “It's your magic I want.”

The Mage gently removes the bottle from Lamb's mouth and retrieves the cork from the carpet. He stoppers it, and I half expect the vampires to spring to life again, but they don't.

The rooms feels heavy.

I watch the Mage as he holds the blackened bottle up to the light, examining its contents. “There wasn't much left in the old man, after all,” he muses, turning to smile at me. “He always was wasteful of his talents. A fine wizard's apprentice, by all accounts, when he was your age. Or so the books say.” He tosses the bottle from hand to hand, laughing to himself. I'm edging towards the door, wondering if my tail's in a helpful escape artist mood. “Then he went the other way, turning himself into a dark creature. And now look what's become of him.”

He gestures to the chair, where I watch black veins recede from a stranger's face.

What's left is not the same Lamb who tormented me all the way up the palace steps, nor the creature who tried to steal Baz's heart.

He's a husk, a shadow, a relic—he's bones and deep lines dug cruelly by time. His shiny auburn hair is gone, replaced with thin wisps of white, and his hands, which downstairs had already seemed so old, fold crookedly across his lap.

A shrunken, ancient man, who can no longer fill his suit.

“What have you done?” I whisper. “Why have you—how did you _age_ him?”

_Is that what the dark lines do? Is that what's going to happen to Baz?_ Arguably, Baz would be even _more_ handsome with silver hair, but now’s not the time to contemplate it.

Lamb blinks, his eyes faint behind a film of milky white. He peers around at the room, smiling softly at the Mage. He doesn't seem to see me anymore.

“The Wraith of the Waste has lived three centuries, at least,” the Mage explains, still running his hands over his bottle. ( _Eau de_ _Lamb?_ ) “I've merely taken what he was hiding behind—centuries of spells and tricks and necks sucked dry, to keep him young. This is what he is, my boy. What he's always been.”

I gape, horrified. Lamb puts his hands on the arms of the chair and tries to stand, but he doesn't have any strength.

_What he's always been._

“You stole his magic,” I mutter, definitely thinking I should leave now. Sod reconciling with the postman—Baz is better off taking his chances on the black market than dealing with _this_ mad house.

“Yes, for what good such paltry slop will do me.”

“Why?” I stall, hoping he's too focused on his current victim to think about his next one. (What would have happened if I'd drunk the tea? Would it have taken my curse? Killed me?) (What's the world coming to, when a man can't trust another man's tea?) “What are you going to do with him?”

The Mage fixes me with a judgmental stare. His eyes are empty of anything I'd say approached personality. “I won't be doing much of anything with him—it's this I want.” He shakes the bottle, pulling on a tasselled rope near the fireplace. Somewhere beneath our feet, a bell rings. “And with this, I'm going to win a war.” He takes a step towards me. (The first of many, going by the look on his face.) “Now my boy, won't you do your country a service? We all make sacrifices at wartime. I don't know what you are, but I can only imagine it would be useful in my arsenal— _winged soldiers_ , imagine! Who did you say your master was—Watford? I'm sure he'd want this for you. Your name, in history.” He runs a finger along the edge of my wing. I feel my tail twitch, sizing up the enemy. “Wouldn't you like a nice cup of tea, after climbing all those stairs?”

_No, I really wouldn't._

It's killing me, turning down tea like this. (But if I drink it, it might actually _kill_ me, so.)

And as he takes another step to close the gap, my tail goes one way and my arms go another, between us managing to get the door open and the Mage on his knees, in one tangled movement. He claws at me, snatching at my necklace like Lamb did earlier, yanking me forward. He gets his fingers around the charm and I have to wrestle it away from him, kicking at him with a shabby boot.

A golden blur shoots past, latching onto his wrist, snapping and snarling.

“Summer, let’s go,” I say, trying to get a hand under her legs—boots in the hallway tell me guards are arriving, and I manage to get her teeth unlatched from the Mage, spit and fury dripping from his lips.

“Get back here!” he screams. “Do your duty, _in the name of the Mage!_ ”

I steal one last glance at Lamb, hunched and shrivelled in his chair—he’s trying to pull himself up again. I want to help, but I'm running out into the hallway, chasing Summer.

_I didn't think I could ever feel sorry for the Wraith, but I almost do. I almost do._

_War and weapons and poisoned tea..._

(Fuck it, I don't even _care_ that it rhymes.)

_...this is not the end for me._

  
  


* * *

  
  


I go barelling around corners, my tail digging into wallpaper and wood panelling, leaving a trail of destruction as we _run, run, run_.

I've got no idea where we’re going, no way to tell.

All I know is I'm not going anywhere near that man and his venomous teapot.

I can hear the Mage’s men behind us, shouting and arguing, ripping open doors and demanding I reveal myself, _in the name of the Mage._ I'm frantic, keeping Summer’s tail within my sights as she skids around another corner, looking for anything that resembles a staircase so I can throw myself down it. _One step closer to the outside world. Why do all the stairs in this palace seem to go up instead of down?_

Three men block us in a corridor. I call out to Summer, but there’s two of her now—one real, one outlined in gossamer. The men curse and take after her cobwebbed ghost, giving us a momentary reprieve.

_Baz,_ I think, heart racing, remembering his magic at the market. And then— _No, no, no. Don’t come for us._

The real Summer slides into a suit of armour, bouncing off it with a hollow clang and disappearing through a door around the next bend. (When did this tower stop making _sense_? How the bloody hell is this practical?) At last, we find a staircase—though it twists and descends only once before ending, and then we’re in another hallway, this one identical to the one we just escaped…same wallpaper, same carpet, same cracks in the ceiling. (I _hate_ this place.) Baz needs to stay far, far away from here. _No arrest or apprehension. No methods unpleasant._

_(I'm sorry. I fucked up. I fucked it all up.)_

_(Please don't be here. I hope you didn't come here. I hope he didn't take your magic.)_

I run blindly, wings dragging, tail curling up over my shoulder to point left at the next crossroads of corridors. I see Summer slipping through an open door, natural light leaking in through a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and I go skidding after her, slamming the door shut behind us.

There are moments at most before they corner us in here. I hurry over to the windows and beat on the glass before noticing the latch—it's stuck. I pull at it, struggling to get a good grip with my clumsy claws, forcing it up with all the strength I have left after duelling fifty thousand flights of stairs. At the moment it finally gives, I hear Summer barking furiously at my feet.

I look down, cursing her and me and all the stupid ideas I’ve ever had, then look up again to feel cold, clean air on my face, and a hand touching mine.

_There you are._

I'd know it was Baz, even if his fingers weren't loaded with enough gems to buy a small island—the room is suddenly filled with the smell of cedar, bergamot and something dark. (Something burnt.) I'm on my knees before him, pulling him out of the air and through the window, pushing hair out of his face.

He’s tired, expression wild as he crumples in my arms, eyes shot with black.

The veins are there, everywhere, crawling up his neck and over his face—I see them snaking, disappearing into the remains of his shirt. He must have ripped it in his rush to stop the whistling from his necklace—there are fine lines all over his chest as if he's scratched himself, and the dark lines have made a map of him, gathering in the pulsing hollow over his heart.

“I found you.”

_You found me._

“I heard you.”

_You heard me._

“I came as soon as I could. I was...deep. In the dark _._ ”

_The star door. You were still out there._ And I could cry, really, knowing what a fool I am for coming here.

His eyes regain a glimmer of grey, and I feel a burst of relief as a pupil shakes itself loose, not yet completely claimed by darkness.

_There's time. If we leave now, I can get him in the bath and he'll be alright._

I don't know how true that is. He's floppy in my arms, drawing shallow, pained breaths—I'm worried he used more magic than he had left to get here. (To _find me_.)

“Baz, come on,” I try, shaking him hard, running the back of my good hand over his face. “We need to go. The Mage did something to Lamb and it's bad, Baz. It's _bad_.”

He frowns, trying to focus on my face. “Simon. Why are you here?”

I dig my fists into his shirt and pull him up so his back's against glass, head resting on my shoulder.

“I thought they had you. I wanted to help—bloody _Post Office_ —but you…you can't be here, Baz. I didn’t mean to bring you _here_ , I…the Mage got the teapot, and Lamb, and…shit, _we need to go_. You’re not safe.”

Footsteps, pounding on carpet.

_They're here._

“Simon,” Baz whispers, and a vein-strewn hand reaches to pull me down by the back of my neck. “Go. You and Summer.” She's barking at the door as shadows appear beneath it. “It's me he wants. All those letters, the war…I'll stop running. But _you_ must run.”

“No.” I need to sever _that_ train of thought before it gains momentum. “You're not being a martyr—I'm not leaving you here.” (I won't let him hurt you.) (I won't let him have you.) “This is my fault and I'm going to fix it, alright? We just need to find a way out.”

The outside air cools my face and my thoughts.

I remember telling Penny yesterday that I was safe. If she could see me now, I'd be in for a classic Bunce lecture. _Simon Snow, which part of accidentally walking into a vampire-killing magic-sucking poisoned-tea party sounds safe to you?_

The Mage’s men break through the door and crowd the entrance, directing their swords at us. " _Monster!_ " they cry. " _Surrender your weapons!"_

Baz is holding my arm, leaning his head against my chest. He's not well, and as usual since I growled my way into his life, I'm making things worse. “Simon, please go.” He's quieter. Weaker. “This isn't the end for you.”

“For _us._ ” And I'm squeezing him, holding him up, one clawed hand in his hair and the other lifting his chin until he's looking at me. “This isn't the end for _us_.”

He licks his lip, then digs a hand into a pocket and pulls out his wand. He leans over my shoulder, skin cold against mine as I smoulder. _**“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire!”**_

The doorway ignites instantly, a line of orange ripping across the carpet, creating a barrier between us and the guards. Summer’s on the other side of it, jumping up at the Mage’s men and tearing holes in their leggings.

“Baz, the window,” I gasp, smoke stinging my eyes. He fumbles his wand and I catch it, trying to stop him from collapsing completely.

I don’t think he can cast us to walk in the sky, like he did in the alleyway. He might not have a single spell left in him.

“It’s alright,” I murmur, as fire chews through the carpet. “It’s alright, Baz.”

“Simon,” he croaks, fingers digging into my shoulders. “Leave me here. The fire is for me.”

And I don't know if it's because I’m afraid or because I'm tired of hearing him talk like that, but I want the day to stop. All of it, all of it can _stop._

(Except this. Except him. Except us.)

I know it's not the time for hesitation. Really, it's the absolute _worst_ time—the Mage's men have got buckets of water, and they must be pulling down curtains from other rooms and tryng to smother the flames.

But Baz spent the night fighting something there isn't a name for. (Only darkness.)

Baz used what was left of himself to find me. (The mess I’ve made.)

Baz is _here_ , and he doesn't care what I've done. (What I was, what I am.)

This isn't the end.

This is where we begin.

I lean into him, my lips finding his, breathing into a gasp and kissing away whatever self-sacrificial nonsense I find there, on the tip of his tongue. He's limp in my arms and I hold him up as he gives in. Baz kisses me back with the sort of care I might have expected, if I'd spent much time thinking about what this would be like. (I _have_ thought about it. Kissing Baz.) (I just didn’t think it’d be in a burning room in the royal palace, the world turning to ash around us.)

I want this before there's nothing left to want. The room’s on fire and I taste like smoke, but it’s alright.

Baz mouth’s is cold. (I guess the night tastes cold?) I kiss him until he starts to warm under my hands—until I can no longer smell his magic, and his face turns pink instead of grey. When I stop to let him breathe, I see dark lines retreating from his mouth, down along his chin and neck. _Good_. _Leave him alone._

He reaches up for me with his mouth, pulling me back to him, and I go, because there’s no other way.

Fire, racing up the walls. Fire, reflected in his eyes.

I wonder if I've ever known anything in my life, before this. If I was sure of anything. I want to kiss Baz until he forgets every spell in his head, and there's only my name left in there, echoing through all his days like a proverb.

But then there's a shout from the doorway, and a channel cuts through the flames—two of the Mage's men are above us, mouths bristling behind their fucking _awful_ moustaches. I look at them, eyes watering as they raise their blades.

_"Abomination!"_

“ _In the name of the Mage!_ ”

And I think about what I’ve seen done in the Mage’s name.

_No._

I bend my head over Baz, as if they're not standing there threatening us. As if none of this is happening. I place another kiss on his lips, and I feel his hand wrap around mine on his wand, turning it into my chest. Against my mouth he murmurs, _**“On love’s light wings.”**_

I look at the window and remember the sky.

I remember the balcony.

“In the name of the Mage?” I growl, finding my feet. My wings beat, tail whipping up to snatch a sword, embedding it in the wall above the guards’ heads. “Well, here's how I feel about _that.”_

The inferno that's been building comes pouring out, these words worth more than fire and smoke.

There's no reason to stop it. No need to try. I open my mouth and it comes as a downpour, an _outrage_ of orange and red, scorching the last of the carpet between here and the door, singeing the moustache of the closest soldier. Summer barks victoriously on the far side of the fire, and I can only hope she’s got her teeth into something sensitive as a guard begs for mercy.

I feel better. Lighter. _Ready._

I put my arms around Baz and pull him against me. I'm on the windowsill with my back to the world, looking in on the soldiers as they lose what's left of their minds. They shout about the Mage and his orders, but they can’t touch us now—my fire beats them back to the doorway. I hear Summer howl as she goes stampeding along the corridor.

I tip Baz's head back so I can see his face. “That's my boy,” I whisper, and he lifts his lips in a smirk.

Then I tip us backwards out of the window.

We fall halfway to nowhere before it happens, arms around each other, throat sore with burn.

And I don't know if it was the moment or his mouth that made me magic, but I can _feel_ it, moving me like an engine. My lungs fill with air, Baz's magic knitting closed the cuts the curse had cleaved through me.

_On love’s light wings_ , with the wind under us. The ground races up in greeting, but this isn’t the end.

I spread my wings. I hold on tight—to Baz, _to dear life._

And then,

I fly.


	7. Thoughts aren't edible

How long have we flown for?

Time's meaningless, this high and far...it feels like hours since my feet were touching burnt carpet, but how can it be?

Maybe time doesn't move in the air. Maybe life is this steady, rhythmic advance, and that's it. No need for pace or measurement―just limbs and a hope for progress as the ground goes by beneath us. I think about when we walked in the air those days ago―I clung to Baz as though the sky was something to fear.

I know what my wings are for, now. Flight, outside of time.

(Fuck me, this is lyrical. What’s _wrong_ with me?)

I need to focus on the physical. Block out all the metaphorical stuff.

Wings. Wings are physical. And it doesn’t hurt, the beating―it _aches,_ but that’s not the same. It’s a good ache, one that reminds me of the distance I’m putting between us and the place before. (Is the palace still burning?) (I hope it ends in ashes.) It lets me know that I’m going _somewhere_ , even if I don’t know where that is. I’m doing something, _helping,_ after all the fucking up I’ve done today. The long chain of errors leading back to me, opening a letter that wasn't mine.

Baz’s magic leaves me slowly. We move away from signs of civilisation―buildings, people, cobblestones and sound―and out over countryside, brick replaced by oceans of grass. I’ve never been to this part of the kingdom before, and as Penny is keen to tell anyone who’ll listen, my sense of direction is less than stellar. I’m just _going_ , hoping the sky leads somewhere calmer. (Somewhere safe.)

I’ve been fighting the dragon stuff, insisting it’s not part of me. But if that’s true, why do my wings move like they’ve always known how? Why is my tail steering me, wrapping around us, holding things together in more ways than one? My claws in his scorched blue coat, an anchor…

I feel different. _Distant_.

(Careful. You’re veering into verse again.)

Physical, Simon. _Focus._

If I weren’t the way I am right now, we’d still be trapped in that burning room. And if I weren't the way I am, I wouldn't have met Baz, which would be a shame given recent...developments. ( _Facial_ developments.)

My wings angle downwards and we descend in slow arcs, taking lungfuls of high-sky air while I can. Baz’s face is pressed into my shoulder, and I hold him tightly as we spiral. All I taste is smoke, and the thought of what we're flying from is heavy on my mind, heat and black splattered on glass.

The landing isn't catastrophic, for a first attempt. (And by that I mean we aren't killed on impact.) The earth doesn’t move for us―doesn't make any allowances for my clumsy feet as I trip―and I spill Baz on the grass, stumbling over him, on my knees with my face in the damp.

_I miss the sky._ It's immediate, painful. I look up to find it's still there, which will have to do. My wings twitch, as though there's somewhere they'd rather be than here, in this field as I retch into weeds.

We lie on our backs in the grass for a long time, looking up at the clouds.

I'm questioning time again. How many hours have we been here? Has it been days? It's hard to tell. The sun hangs above us like an eye, and I squint into it until I see white, blotting out everything else. I close my eyes and it’s there, an imprint, bright fighting dark. I can’t feel my wings anymore―movement's made them numb and lazy.

I don't feel right. Everything's in pieces.

Lying in a cloud of dust and petals, and I never want to leave.

(We could run away.)

Leaving means facing things, reentering time.

(Baz likes running, he'd be up for it.)

Thinking about what happened in the palace.

(The Mage and black veins, sucking life from the Wraith.)

Leaving means thinking about what comes next.

(Corridors, suits of armour, Summer's howl as she tore along crushed carpet.)

( _Won't you do your country a service? We all make sacrifices at wartime._ )

I swallow, sinking slowly into nothing. I don't want to think about winged soldiers and the hell the Mage had in mind, when he looked at me. Swords raised against us, the fire that poured from my throat...

_No_.

I want to be where Baz is.

(He's here. He's safe.)

We're miles from the city, from the palace, from anyone. Somewhere nameless in the hills where there's grass and not much else. (There's a miserable sheep somewhere to my left, taking its woes out on the world, but no _people_. That's the main thing.) Baz isn't through the star door, and neither is he being chased by vengeful postal workers―he's here, with me. _Safe._

I can't believe I set the royal palace on fire with my face. I wonder if they've put the flames out yet? My throat's raw beyond reckoning, and I personally feel as though that's punishment enough. _Dear The Mage―is it alright if I call you Davy?―Please don't try to kill me in my sleep. I will be eating ice cream and soup for the rest of the week, because it turns out that breathing fire is a fucking pain in the neck. (Ha!) With love, Simon._

To be honest, a week of soup and ice cream doesn't sound too bad. Maybe if I complain repeatedly in Shepard's general vicinity, I can make it happen. After we landed, Baz cast his spell on me―the one from the bath incident―and kissed my neck until the wounds closed. I've been left with a dull ache and a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't mind his lips on me like that for the rest of my life.

He'll come after us.

The Mage. I watched him steal magic, and if he wanted it from someone as feeble as Lamb, I bet he was gagging for what those fancy wizards on the steps were hoarding. Everything's probably in chaos in the capital, but once things calm down and he remembers my scaly parody of a face, he'll get after me. Even if he decides against another tea poisoning, he won't want me out here in the wide unknown, letting everyone know what a nasty piece of work he is.

I scrunch my eyes shut and think. _How would the Mage find me?_ _I didn't tell him my name. He doesn't know I was there for Baz, instead of the imaginary Chaz. Maybe they saw which direction we flew off in, but that doesn't give much to go on_. _The kingdom's as wide as it is long._ I look at the sky again and breathe. We're two specks on the hillside, that's all―they won't find us. Not yet.

I turn my head to look at Baz. He hasn't moved since we landed, dark lines rolling under the surface of his skin. One hand's at his side and the other is folded against his chest, resting on his necklace. There's a daisy poking up through the grass right by his ear, and I want to pick it. I watch sun shine off the rings decorating his fingers, and I manage a smile as my eyes drift up to his mouth.

_I kissed him there. I kissed a bloke._

Part of me is wondering why I did that, while the rest’s wondering what took so long. (I admit it wasn't the best time.) (Bloody _stupid_ time, really.)

Also, I think I should do it again.

I've never kissed anyone before today. Gareth tried to start a malicious rumour about me and Mrs Weatherly last year, but it never took off. I warned him that if she found out, _he'd_ get another shoe beating, not me, so he stopped...and apart from that fictional scenario, I've never got close. (Not that I tried.) (It really would have to be Mrs Weatherly, or a goat. Or Gareth.)

I roll over, pushing charred curls out of my face and sliding fingers along Baz’s cheek. He’s peaceful like this―the dark lines are faint, and if he doesn’t exactly look rested, he at least might be on the way. Looking at him’s nice but not enough―my lips find his, and I reckon I should see if he’s sleeping first (s'only polite), but then he stirs against me, smiling into the kiss.

“My magic’s made a nuisance of you,” he murmurs, our lips lazy, enjoying the feel of the sun on the back of my neck as I press him gently into the grass.

Smoke, magic, sunlight, skin.

I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know when we’ll get there.

But I do want this. I do want this.

I push my hand into his hair, leaning over him, arms either side of his head. _Is this what we do now? Can this be something we do?_ I'm thinking about making him reach up for my mouth again like he did in the palace, when I feel his hands pulling me to him. I'm going to go with it, because it's so _good_ and I much prefer this to worrying about all that's gone wrong, and then―

“Simon, your _back_.”

He sits up, which obviously I'm not prepared for, what with my mouth conducting a thorough exploration of _his_ mouth. After a clash of foreheads and his knee ending up in an unfortunate place (it's alright, never wanted children anyway), we're opposite each other, marvelling at my completely normal spine.

“The knobbly dragon bits,” I say. “They're gone.”

I feel a bit embarrassed about letting Baz lift my shirt, but he insists, and then his palm's pressing against my skin, which feels good. Now that I think about it, shouldn't there be...?

“Scales. Where the fuck are my scales?”

It's all I can do not to stare at him staring at me, gaping at my mundanity.

“Your back's clear. The magic sharing...that final spell of mine must have affected you." I try not to blush. _On love’s light wings_. He gestures vaguely at the rest of me. "How do you feel? You must tell me if you get the sudden urge to hoard things. Also, if your thoughts become too poetic.”

Hoard things? What's he talking about? My thoughts _have_ been a bit whimsical (and suspiciously eloquent) since the flight. But I feel more myself now.

Nothing to worry about.

I check my right arm and it’s still scaly, but...isn't there more _skin_ than before? A bit more me? I take inventory of the main things: wings, tail, fangs. (What about my arse?) (I'll check later. Now's not the time.) “I feel good. Amazing, really. Different? Like I could kick off and fly again." I'm jabbering, running my hands up and down and over. "Does this mean Lamb's alive? Would the _**fashionable ensemble**_ break if he died?” I remember how he looked, struggling to get out of the chair... _alive_ might not be the word for what's left of him.

Baz frowns, tugging my shirt back into place and smoothing it over my back with both hands. (Honestly, I'm not sure he knows he's doing it.) (I'm not about to stop him, mind.) “Not necessarily―the caster must _want_ the curse to end. Not even death can undo certain magicks.” He seems to realise what he's doing with his hands, and gathers them in his lap instead. “I don't expect the Mage killed the Wraith. There's a certain sequence of events one must undertake in order to end a vampire, and the ruler of our fair kingdom does _not_ strike me as a man of patience.”

He flops onto his back, rubbing his hands against his face. A butterfly perches on his knee before taking off again―living colour against grey.

I don't want to talk about the Wraith, but we should. I need to at least tell Baz what happened. (And it might be handy to know how to kill a vampire, seeing as I keep bumping into them.)

It's hard to focus. It takes me an age to form a question.

“What sequence of events?”

“Oh, the usual dark creature dispatch requirements―stake, beheading, salt, shallow grave on a full moon, embalm the body in garlic, that sort of thing. Truly, it's a brother.”

My nose wrinkles. _I don't want to know how he knows all that. Maybe they have slaying lessons in wizarding school? “Alright children, on the count of three! There are countless innocent lives at stake!”_

“So you can't kill a vampire with, say...a cup of tea?”

He leans up on his elbows, watching me curiously. “Tea? No. Not unless it were a particularly virulent strain, I suppose. There _was_ the great tea plague of the ninth century, though any remaining leaves were burnt on a ceremonial pyre, in accordance with the proper rites...Simon, what _are_ you blathering on about? Are you sure you feel alright?”

I groan, because talking about it means reality is seeping back in, and I'd much rather keep well away. “In the Weeping Tower, the Mage took this glass bottle, and he...I don't know, _choked_ Lamb with it? And Lamb had drunk this milky tea, right―it looked proper rank―amateur tea-making, at best―and it looked like what's all over _you_ , when you come back through the star door.” I'm cartwheeling around this pitiful explanation, tracking Baz's face as he goes through the agonies of keeping up with me. ( _Simon, as ever, yer words are clear as goat shit_ , Ebb would say.) “Then he―the Mage―did you know his name's _Davy_?―he says he's going to use it in his war. Lamb's shitty magic. _All_ magic, maybe. There were loads of other wizards there but we didn't see any of them in the palace. It's weird, right―you go up all these stairs but you never go down.”

Baz reaches to scratch at his chest and stomach, his fingers moving aimlessly over pulsing lines. I give him a minute, then raise my eyebrows in what is hopefully a decent imitation, waiting for his reaction.

“Simon,” he says eventually. “You can't kill a vampire with tea. Tell me, do you feel unwell since we landed?”

_Yes. Like someone’s murdering a lute between my ears._

I ignore the question. He doesn't appear to have any additional thoughts about the Mage, or what he did with the bottle of magic. (And is it me, or...does he _not_ seem surprised?)

_What happened to Lamb has something to do with what's happening to you. The black lines, dark magic...what's he doing, and why are you the only one fighting it?_

The star door...

Baz's fingers stop roaming. (Good, because he was getting perilously close to trouser territory.) He opens his mouth and I'm sure, I'm _certain_ he's about to say something important _(finally_ ) _,_ when my stomach lets out what I can only describe as the darkest, most desperate sound known to man. His face screws up in distaste.

“What?” I ask, arms open to the sky. _I want to be up there._ “Morning was a long time ago. I can't remember the last thing I ate, Baz―and for me, that's bad. That's _grim_.”

“You're impossible. We escape a burning building, and the first thing on your mind is food.”

_The first thing on my mind was kissing_ you _, but alright._

“Aren't _you_ hungry?” I'm starving. Ravenous. Wild.

He sneers, his hair a tangle of black down his neck. (I want my hands in it again.) “Yes, Snow, but I remain the possessor of those basic dignities you seem to be lacking.”

“Not my fault I'm hungry.” I shrug. “And you know what, sod dignity. You can't eat dignity, and if you could, it'd be pretty bloody bland. Like paper.”

“Like...? No, don't tell me―I can live without such stories. We've escaped a raging, tea-contaminating bigot, discovered the joys of dragon-flight, and are potential highlights on a long list of outlaws to have upset dear Davy...and yet, you're more concerned about _dinner_?”

I scowl. “You've got a lot of clever thoughts, Baz, but thoughts aren't edible. I need bread.” I wiggle a claw and wait for his eyebrows to salute me. “And butter.”

He groans and flops back again, draping an arm over his face. “The depraved butter claw. I've said it before and I'll say it again―you're an animal.”

Animal. He's right, I _do_ feel unwell. Agitated, like I might go off any minute. I feel a sudden, frantic confession struggling to the surface, and I'm too wobbly to fend it off.

“Baz, I stole your post.” I keep going, because apparently fragmented thoughts come tumbling out of me, once the tap's been turned on. “The one you hid in the chest under the sink. It said your registration's been terminated because you never responded to all the other letters.” _Also, somebody might try to arrest you at some point, but we'll worry about that when it happens. I am not above tackling a postman._

_And...I don't know how to tell you this, but the Mage has got a painting of your mum on the wall of his palace. I know it was her because you've the same taste in jewellery, and she looked beautiful in an angry way. (Which is how I'd describe you, right now.) (Or...all of the time.)_

“A bandit of letters,” he says through his teeth, brow furrowed. I await my well-deserved bollocking, but it doesn't come. Lying in the grass has helped him regain a bit of strength, but he's still too tired for my bullshit. “...well, I suppose it was leading to something, wasn't it? The blasted Post Office is always plotting―illiterate, ill-intentioned imbeciles that they are...even so, Snow, you and I are due a little chat about privacy.” He waits for me to nod, repentant. "Everything about today was rash."

_Snow, Snow, Snow,_ an avalanche of mistakes made.

“Sorry.” _I thought you were in trouble. "_ I thought you were there. In the palace.” I expect a sarcastic reply, or at least an eye roll, but instead he lets his hand drop to his side, palm up and open. He must have lost some of his rings during the flight―I follow the long lines of his bare fingers, blackened with ash. "You found me," I say quietly.

And instead of pushing things again, about the Mage and Lamb and stolen magic, I crawl over to him. (I must be weak, too.) (Weak and wanting.) Instead of asking about his mother, I ask if I can kiss him.

“You don't strike me as the sort to seek permission,” he drawls. “You haven't so far. Just gone about planting your face on things, like a presumptuous mollusc.”

“Yeah, well, I _am_ asking now, aren't I? I'd rather know if you didn't.” I swallow and catch him watching me, the movement of my neck. “Like it, I mean. Or want it.”

He makes a face as if he's pissed off, but I see the way his mouth quirks, like he's fighting off a smile. “How about this, Snow? If you don't kiss me immediately, I'm going to spell those missing scales back on. And don't think I won't―I'm no wraith, but I suspect I can manage. _**Scaling the mountain**_ ―that should do the trick.”

It's the sort of threat you know is made for show. (Or hope. His wand's still in his pocket, so I _think_ I'm alright, though I do pass a hand over my back to be sure.) I cast shadows on his face as I lean over, enjoying how he looks with his black hair against the green, bringing out the deeper sea in his eyes.

If I kiss him like this, he might forget about the fire.

If I kiss him like this, he might leave the dark behind.

When he kisses me like that, I'm no longer a monster.

When he kisses me like that, I forget I'm a curse.

More shadows, this time over both of us―I open my eyes and look up, listening as something groans and grumbles its way over the next rise. I expect another low-flying warplane, but instead see shards of black pushing up from the horizon―turrets, peppered with gargoyles.

_The castle._

“It found us,” I say in amazement. My wings flutter, straining to beat.

Baz sniffs. “About time. No doubt Calcifer was expending his energy on complaining, rather than moving the damned thing.”

“But how did it know where we were?”

He frowns as a turret appears then retreats, swaying with the rhythm of movement. For a moment I'm flying again, vital with my own cadence, as much a castle as a man. (Cadence? _Really_?) (Am I dying?)

“It finds me,” Baz says hazily, fiddling with an earring. The other one's missing. “Or rather, Calcifer does. I know―enough to warm a cold heart, is it not? Despite the despicable things he says, he's rather fond of me.”

The castle ambles over the hill towards us, clumsy on its legs of brick and mortar. Smoke billows out of the chimney, and I'm trembling suddenly, thinking about the palace again. _Glass, black, frame, howl, fire, stairs, stairs, stairs, stairs,_ _smoke._

I don't feel right. I should tell Baz.

I was...magic. For a moment. I _flew._ (Shepard's going to outline a fucking novel when he finds out.) (There may not be enough notebooks in the land for it.) I breathed fire and burnt a man's moustache off. Baz gave me his magic and...well, I was, wasn't I? _I was magic._

And now...

Now I'm not. I'm _less._

But I don't feel empty. Not yet.

“I lost your cloak.” Another burst of confession. (Might as well admit all my wrong-doings now, before we're swept back up in Calcifer's unending personal drama.) I push a hand into my pocket. “Saved this, though. There might be a claw hole or two, but the good news is I can sew. The legendary tailor Haz Jenkins can attest to that.” I pass the tattered blue scarf to him, wind almost pulling it away.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, rubbing a thumb over the parched fabric. He pauses, lashes low. “This was my mother's.”

“Oh.” I feel extra bad for ripping it now, and for having it draped over my sweaty head all day, soaking up fear and soot. “I'll sew it the best I can. No goat faces, I promise. And I'll wash it.”

He licks his lip, pushing the scarf inside his coat. He starts walking towards the castle, but I reach for his hand and hold us back a moment more.

_Run away. Let's run away, right now._

And then, slightly more sensibly: _One more. One more confession._

“Baz. In the palace, before the Mage took us upstairs...there was a painting on the wall. It was your mum―she was wearing your necklace.”

He says it's obvious when I'm thinking―and he's probably right―but I reckon it's right there on _his_ face, when he's holding something back. His lips draw into a line, eyebrows pushing down instead of up, and he's looking anywhere he can. (Except at me.)

“Did he know her?”

Why else would you hang someone's portrait on your wall? Unless all those people were important wizards. Was Baz's mum a wizard? Is that how it works? _Son, I bestow unto you my glitter and passion for gaudy capes._

“Yes, he knew her,” Baz says quietly, twisting the remaining rings on his fingers. He nods, and I think it's more to himself than to me. “They trained together. Before the Mage developed lofty notions of ruling, he and my mother attended the same school.” I watch his teeth graze his lip uncertainly. "You must understand this is difficult to talk about."

I say I do, and he starts walking―head down, lost in an echo. It takes five steps for me to catch up with his two (fucking _legs_ ) and clasp his hand again, bringing it to my mouth to kiss his palm. He's so surprised he stops dead, staring at me.

“It's alright, Baz,” I say. And it is―it _is_ alright. We're going to figure this out. Whatever happens now, with the Mage and the star door...we're going to find the end of it. He might think I'll give up, and he might want to give up himself. But it's not happening. (It's not _ending_.) “You don't have to tell me unless you're ready. I'm here.” _I'm not going anywhere._

He nods again, both of us slightly more present, and squeezes my hand. We stand in the grass and wait for the castle to settle in the ground before us, drawbridge lowering with a thump. An excited voice calls out from the open doorway.

“Hey! You're late for dinner!”

_Shepard._

I start forwards but Baz pulls me back. He leans into me, breathing against my ear―I loop my arms around his waist, tail climbing to curl loosely over his wrist. I fight a final urge to run.

We hold onto each other like we did when we fell, before the fall became flight.

I hear him say quietly, “He’s the reason she’s dead.” And then, “All of them. Though you won't find it written in the records.”

And I think about a long line of faces, stretching around a room.

Paint cracked with age, life trapped in frames.

  
  


* * *

  
  


I apologise to Shepard before we're halfway through the door. He's just _so_ happy to see us, and I'm all too aware of the complete lack of grumpy spaniel, her howl racing through my head like a siren. _I lost your truant dog and left her behind in a burning palace, surrounded by moustachioed madmen―very sorry for any emotional trauma this may cause._

“What are you talking about? Summer's here,” he beams, letting me go up the stone steps ahead of him. “She's right by the fire.”

“She's right by _a_ fire,” I mutter, which earns me a sharp elbow from Baz.

_Shepard's delusional without her_ , I think, stomach sinking. _He can't even make it through one day._ Baz pushes past me on the steps, muttering something about a _tactless idiot._ (Wonder who he's talking about?) He pauses with his hand on a leaning stack of books, looking about as ravaged as I feel.

“What is _this_?” he hisses, and I think he's reaching back for my hand, but realise too late he's just looking for bones to crush in his iron grip.

“Argh, let go―Baz, my _wrist―_ ” I look across the kitchen, where I learn what's causing the upset.

Summer is indeed lying by the fire, though it's at the feet of another, far less friendly face than Shepard's. My eyes track along two shaking ankles wrapped in baggy fabric, over a frilly, cream jacket that's three sizes too big, and across drooping shoulders too weak to hold up a head of grey, floaty hair.

He's a picture of fragility. _A shadow, a relic._

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I mutter, stomping up the final step and skidding across the floor. “What the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?”

“ _Welcome back, o' vagrant ones,”_ Calcifer flares when he sees us. _“I've got a barrage of unused insults, ready and waiting to alight upon your ears. But first―look what the dog brought home for dinner.”_ He pauses in his terrible mirth, peering up at me from the grate. _“Simon, you smell like me―and for you, that’s not good. You don't look too grand, either. What happened out there?”_

Lamb twists his pleated neck, squinting up at me from behind a film of milky blue. The movement makes me think of an accordion, trapped in a merry dance. “Pretty fire.”

And now my mouth's twisting, readying another burst of heat, though without the rest of Baz's magic, there's not much in me besides soot. “What is he _doing_ here? How did he get here?” I bend to look Summer in the eye. She tilts her head, seeming to suggest that _I_ might be the tactless idiot of whom Baz spoke. “What the hell's going on? You can't bring _vampires_ home for tea, Summer! He's the nightmare we've been trying to get away from.”

At the mention of tea, Lamb lets out a low, ominous whine. He only stops when his beady eyes trap Calcifer, who shrinks to cower behind his logs.

“ _They came through the royal city door an hour or so ago. He smells like something long-dead and recently barbecued, and I demand an explanation.”_

I groan, sinking to my knees, my tail snaking up to prod the Wraith in his crinkled cheek. “He needs to leave. Right now. Open one of the doors and I'll shove him through.”

Shepard strides over, waving his hands and a wooden spoon coated in broth. “Simon, he can't go anywhere like this! The guy's got to be over a hundred.” (Try three.) “He's Summer's guest―I'm making _soup_. Wouldn't you feel awful if he went outside and caught a chill?”

“It's a lovely day and I bloody well wouldn't.” Can vampires even catch chills?

I'm glad he's not dead. I really am.

But I don't want him _here_.

(I'm running again, tearing around corners, clawing at a latch that won't open.)

“ _Kid, don't start a fight you can't win,_ ” Calcifer warns, eyeing Shepard's sticky spoon. _“I've seen him deal with the worst kind of customers―this man will kill you with kindness.”_

I'm about to ask Shepard if he realises who―and _what―_ this overripe turnip once was, when Baz sweeps past me, placing his body between Lamb and the fire. Calcifer sighs, grateful to be blocked from view. The Wraith raises his head, squinting along the length of Baz's scorched boots, eventually finding his face.

“Charles,” he croaks. “Your heart. It's beautiful.” And then he says something that makes every inch of me burn, from my ears to my hooked, gnarled toes. “ _I found you._ ”

Nope. No _way_. Not after today. (The fire, the falling.) Not after the flight and the field and everything I'm finally feeling―

(Alliteration. That’s pretty bloody poetic, right? There _is_ something wrong with me. I should―)

―I am _not_ going to sit here and listen to this failed, dried-up raisin as he attempts to seduce my wizard.

“Get up,” I growl, hooking my arms under Lamb's bony shoulders and attempting to drag him from the chair. (Black, glass, magic.) “You're clearly not _that_ decrepit, if you managed to shuffle your way through the capital bloody city.” He whines, gumming at my wrist with sloppy lips. (Is he trying to _bite_ me?) “First of all, you're far too fucking old for him. Second of all, you're dead. Third of all, you're a fool who wanted to join the Mage's war. This shit's on you, mate.” It takes an upset Shepard _―_ gentle, reasonable Shepard _―_ to pull me off him, though he does slide a fair way down the chair. (Fangs, flight, _fear.)_

_And on this day, the great Simon Snow hassled an old man until he collapsed._

I don't feel good about the way I'm acting. But I don't feel good about _anything_ ―it's like I'm seeing the world through fog, too slow to stop any of it from happening.

I want to run outside and be in the sky again. I want to fly and be part of the echo, outside of time.

Baz is still leaning back against the fire, arms folded, smouldering in an _I was recently almost burnt alive_ sort of way. “Snow, if you can't behave, I would ask that you take yourself elsewhere. I am perfectly capable of dealing with the old man by myself.”

“Oh, I bet you'd _love_ it if I went elsewhere,” I snarl. The anger's hot in me now, and without fire there's nowhere else for it to go. “You and this crinkly prat can have a grand old time, drinking tea and reliving the glory days.” Lamb moans again at another rogue mention of tea. His interruption is the perfect opportunity for me to calm down and _think_ about words before I say them...but I'm _not_ calm and I _can't_ think. The fog rises, and I watch myself rampage. “I bet you two had a wild time of it once, didn't you? Lads about town, ruling the night. How did it work back then? Did you stalk them beforehand, or was it more of an opportune thing? You know, whoever's stupid enough to be backed into an alleyway...you eat the heart while he works the neck.”

It's right up there among the worst things I've said, and I've no idea where it comes from. The silence my outburst brings on the kitchen is depressing. I regret it immediately _,_ and the way Baz's face blanks over...well, I regret that most of all.

_"I'm not normally one to disrupt an insult-strewn rant of epic proportions,"_ Calcifer says, glowing gently. _"But Simon, are you feeling alright? You've been shaking since you stomped in here."_

"Yeah," I say, but I'm struggling to breathe, bending over to place my forehead against the cool floor.

_I'm sorry. Fuck, am I on fire?_

"Residual magic," I hear Baz say, though he doesn't move from the fireplace. His voice is rasping, tired. "I feared as much, though he insisted he was fine. I shared my magic with him to get us out of the city―he's been strange since we landed. Well, more strange than usual...I suspect it's currently encouraging the more _instinctive_ aspects of his curse." His tongue presses into his lip. "I've cast on him before, but not shared. Not everyone can handle it."

So...this isn't me being a bastard? This is me being a _dragon_?

I mean, I'm glad to hear it's the magic’s fault, but I _feel_ like a bastard. (To press the point, my tail starts sawing at the Wraith's shoelaces.)

_"It'll wear off. What spell did you share?"_ Calcifer crows, amused by my predicament. _"It must've been a strong one. I've only ever seen him this possessive about food."_

Baz's cheeks are stained red as he turns to face the fireplace. I catch the whisper, though he tries to contain it. " _On love's light wings._ Do not judge me, demon."

_"Oh, Basil,"_ Calcifer cackles. _"You cad. No wonder he's trapped in his own avarice―he's trying to hoard you. Simon, if you_ must _be a lizard at large in the castle, can you angle for more of your nurturing instincts, and less of the nutter? Everything in here's flammable."_

I take deep breaths, trying to focus on the parts of me that are mine. I don't want to hurt Baz, and that's all I'm achieving each time I open my mouth. There's no chance to apologise for it _―_ Baz is pulling his wand from his coat, scowling and muttering to Calcifer, while Shepard noses his way between them and the chair, notebook in hand.

“Fascinating,” Shepard says, smiling at me. He's brought me a glass of water, and pats me gently on the back. “Can you make a list of your symptoms? I'd love to talk about them later. And Simon, I know it's crowded in here, but don't you realise what this means? A post-vampire vampire _―_ a _first!―_ and _I_ get to interview him for my book. This is unbelievable…there's got to be two chapters of original content in him, at least!”

“Nobody's interviewing a vampire,” I croak, guzzling water, watching as Shepard's excitement leads him far beyond reach and reason. (He's got a rapid three-pencil operation underway, scribbling and sketching like a man possessed, throwing one into the fire when it's worn down, rather than wasting time on sharpening.)

I snort furiously, backing away from the merry scene, murder in mind. (Apparently dragons want to kill things, burn things, and fly away from things, in that order.) I felt horrible for Lamb in the palace _―_ I really did _―_ but now he's _here_ in _our_ space and everyone's fussing over him, like he's a royal guest and I'm...well, like I'm the blazing idiot who caused this mess in the first place.

In the field I could pretend this was far away. I could kiss Baz, and he could kiss me back, and we'd stay outside of everything. (For a moment, for a while.)

Now there's a wrinkly vampire taking up kitchen space with his silver hair and silver tongue, and that means the palace, the Mage, the dark magic...it's _here_ , in the castle. We can't run away from it.

I've wanted Baz to stop running.

But right now, I want to be gone.

_No. Don't move. Breathe, breathe, breathe._ I fight down the panic. There can't be much magic left in me, except for what remains of the curse―when I choke this time, the smoke in my throat is little more than a wisp. _Good. That's good. Come back to yourself._

“Calcifer, open the Saltnook door,” Baz says, turning and kneeling in front of the chair. I want him to look at me, but he won't. He looks up at Lamb instead, and for a moment I think he's about to cast a spell. ( _ **Kiss it better**_?) But instead he sneers, raking over what remains. “I told you. I _told_ you what he was.”

Lamb's eyes drift from the fireplace _―_ Calcifer's gathered at the back of the grate, munching on a pencil _―_ and settle on Baz. His face crinkles in a half smile, mostly gum and grey tongue. “Pretty fire.”

Baz rolls his own eyes, wand still in hand. “Yes, of course, he's a delightful stain on my life.”

“ _You need to tell him the truth, Basil,_ ” Calcifer flickers. _“Tell him so he hears it. Then turn his chair around, so I don't have to look at him. He looks like a malevolent prune.”_

“I've told him plenty of times. He doesn't want to listen.”

“ _Well, tell him again. I’m tired of him staring at me like I'm his next meal―he's even more of an abyss than I am. He'll put me out of work and drive poor Simon to destruction.”_

Baz rolls his neck, eyes, shoulders _―_ pretty much everything he can in one swift, practiced movement. “Wraith of the Waste. Listen to me.”

“Pretty fire, pretty heart,” Lamb mutters, and I think, _if you say heart one more time, I'm going to extract yours and toss it into the flames while you watch._

“ _Listen,”_ Baz hisses, and I find myself leaning in, much like Lamb is. (Though I suspect _he’s_ leaning in because he can’t hear very well.) “I cannot give it to you.”

_Will not, you mean. Don’t want to? Rather not? Steadfastly refuse? Any of those sound better than_ cannot…

“I do not have one.”

_Ah._

“I do not have a heart, Lamb.”

_Well._

“I cannot give you what isn’t there. Even if it _were_ there, I wouldn't give it to you. We've had this conversation a hundred times, and I ask now as I always have _―_ do you understand?”

His words give life to a shade of hope, though it can't be much. Not after what I said, not with what I'm feeling, humming inside me like a sinister turbine. But Baz...he doesn't have a heart? Surely he'd be dead, or at least as dead as Lamb is. ( _Is_ Baz dead?)

“Pretty fire,” Lamb replies vacantly.

Baz quirks an eyebrow at Calcifer. “Hear that, dear hardship? All this chasing, and I think it’s _you_ he came for, after all.”

Calcifer sparks black, momentarily shuttering the already dim kitchen in darkness, then burrows deep under his logs. _“Let him down gently for me, old miser? I haven’t the heart to hurt an elder. If you can't go through with it, ask Simon―our dragon's itching for a fight.”_

“Lamb,” Baz tries again, less patient this time. He doesn't spare me so much as a glance. “You were warned about the Mage countless times, and still you went to him _―_ I feel no guilt, because was I not there those years ago, telling you _exactly_ what he was? And now I’m telling you what _I_ am. _I have no heart._ ”

The Wraith seems, for a moment, to wrestle things into focus. His pupils grow wide and dark, flitting between Baz and the fire, before shuttering slowly. “That's the first true thing you've said to me. There's truth in the lies, Charles.”

Baz exhales, apparently done with their aimless conversation, and moves to the door. The dial starts to spin, and he looks over a shoulder at Shepard, who's tearing through pages as he battles valiantly to jot everything down. “Shepard, after I'm done, I'll need you to lock all of the doors. Leave only the moon and star open. We're closing the two city shops, effective immediately _―_ no more customers.”

The nib of Shepard's third and final pencil snaps, but he doesn't argue. “Of course, Baz. Let me know when you're ready _―_ there are some sturdy padlocks in the store room. We've got plenty of coins to last us a while.”

Baz opens the door on weak sunlight and wind _―_ I catch the scent of salt and sea and feel a sudden, terrible yearning to be out there, in the middle of nowhere. _I need to fly._ Baz holds his wand up and sighs against the outside world. _“_ _ **Room to manoeuvre**_ **,”** he casts, and I hear how his heart isn't in it. He looks better than he did in the palace, but he's drained. (We're both in dire need of a bath.) _“_ _ **Decisions made in a smoke-filled room.**_ ”

And I drop my head, wondering how many of those decisions he regrets.

I crawl to where Lamb slouches and drop Baz's letter into the fire. My hands are shaking, scales clacking in a malignant refrain. (Calcifer is, as usual, eager to digest the indigestible―the palace's angry capitals are gone in a sudden spark.) Shepard's rummaging around for padlocks, Summer's looking up at me solemnly, and I'm left with my hands on my hips, summoning the spirit of Penelope Bunce, if not her actual presence. I turn to face the Wraith.

_Simon. Get it together. Be who you are, not what the Mage saw._

“I'm sorry for what happened to you.” I chew my lip. “But you really shouldn't have touched his shoddy, milky tea.”

I exhale through my mouth, and a bit more magic fritters away in the space between us.

“ _I'm not sorry,”_ Calcifer quips joyfully. _“Do you know how many miles I've had to put in, moving the castle away from this villain? If he's down to a snail's pace, it's better for everyone.”_

Lamb looks through me _―_ through my wings _―_ into the red.

“What a pretty fire,” he wheezes, reaching out an aged hand. He beckons me down to his level and I go, not knowing what I'll find. “Here, lad. For you.”

He drops something green and glinting into my palm. It's an earring―sea green and lovely. It's the one missing from Baz's ear.

_How did you get this?_ I frown. _You were_ _upstairs struggling to stand when Baz came through the window._

I glare at him suspiciously, but he's gone back to ogling Calcifer. I slip the earring into my pocket, feeling it pinch against my hip. Maybe Lamb staggered down to the burning room after the Mage's men extinguished the fire. Or perhaps Summer retrieved it, after she'd led Davy's army on a jaunt around the building...

“Pretty fire,” he says again, and I stop trying to make sense of it.

_What happens to a Wraith without its magic? Is there a facility for over-the-hill vampires, where they can sit and gum at hard-boiled sweets, playing bingo until their long nights are done?_

“What a pretty heart.”

I close my eyes, dragging shivery breaths, fingers on my necklace.

Baz casts tired magic into daylight, while I try to keep the dragon at bay.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Later, moon's high and the fire is low.

I'm lying in front of the fireplace with a book (and yes, I'm as surprised as anybody else), feeding twigs of spruce to Calcifer, fighting to stay awake.

The magic's gone now...or at least, the more pronounced parts. All that's left is guilt, shame, and creeping disappointment. (The usual, then.)

“ _Get some rest, kid―things will be fine now. The saggy vampire's gone to his retirement home, and you two will feel right as rain in the morning. It'll be like a hangover―have you ever woken up in a wheelbarrow? Magic sharing’s deep_ _stuff, and i_ _t’d knock even the strongest wizard off-kilter. You did well to survive it._ _”_

I smile, not feeling like I’ve done well at anything. I don’t think I can sleep tonight. Not until I've found an answer...something that will help Baz. ( _He’s the reason she’s dead. All of them._ )

After he and Shepard got back from Saltnook, I was worried Baz would go straight back out through the star door, but instead he went upstairs. (I hope he's in bed, clean and silky.) (And not, you know, lost under his mountains of junk.) I'd go to his room and check on him, but he didn't say a word to me when he got back, and I'm sure what I said is still stuck between us like a sore.

From what I can gather, Baz created a room behind the Saltnook door for Lamb to stay in. Shepard says it isn't much _―_ an armchair, a footstool, a small (unpretty) fire, a window, food _―_ locked from the outside. Lamb won't be able to get back inside the castle, and he won't be able to terrorise the elderly residents of the village. (I can just imagine him ransacking the pier like a skeletal seagull, haunting community centres and tapping on windows with his barbed fingers, begging for blood.)

I asked Shepard what will happen to Lamb in the long term. If he gets enough blood, will he become what he was before? (Sneaky and vicious, though admittedly polite on a staircase.) Shepard _really_ wants to be the one who finds out, but Baz and Calcifer don't think it's a good idea. They expect that Lamb's surviving soldiers in the Waste will realise he's missing at some point (though they've got brains made of sawdust, at best), and eventually track him down _―_ what happens then, we don't know. Maybe this time Lamb will go another way...become a vampire who obeys his civic duty―only taking sips when he needs to, and otherwise getting on with his pottery, gardening and puzzles. (He must _have_ interests, other than Chaz.) (He still doesn't know Chaz is Baz.)

Shepard's been unanimously banned from interviewing him, so we might never find out Lamb's greater desires in life. He didn't say anything as he was lifted from the chair and moved to his cosy nook, though he did cast another look of longing into the flames, a furrowed hand trailing after Calcifer.

“ _Good riddance to bad poetry,”_ the demon concluded.

With my mind finally mine again, I have to agree.

After we were finally free of His Wrinkliness, I went upstairs to the bathroom. I listened out for Baz as he started up the spire, not wanting to disturb him, then crept in to clean myself of smoke and turmoil. The remaining water in the taps was cold but I didn't care _―_ there was a plain bar of soap on the side, which Baz might have meant for me. He'd also left salts in the bottom of the bath, though all of his potions had been hidden away so I couldn't fuck anything up. (Anything _else_.)

I'm a bit cleaner than before, and much less smoky. The day leaves me, bit by bit, like the scales vanished from my back.

I dunk my spoon into a bowl of soup, battling to focus on the book, which in my opinion has far too many tiny words and nowhere near enough helpful diagrams. I don't know what I'm hoping for _―_ Baz said there was no record of what the Mage did, but how can that be true?

I haven't been able to get it out of my head, what he said about his mum. In an awful way, it's not surprising that the Mage would keep those paintings _―_ portraits of his victories, on display for all to see. Will the wizards who passed me on the stairs be hung on the wall tonight, in an ambush of memory?

(Alright, so I’m still feeling a _bit_ poetic. I’m hoping it fucks off by morning.)

“ _You won't find much truth in old books, kid. I never did.”_

_Truth_ , I think. _I'd take any truth at all. An echo, an inkling._

“Calcifer, you don't strike me as much of a reader.”

The fire pulses. _“I'll have you know I've learnt every book in this place off by heart. What else is there for me to do all day? The gargoyles hardly ever fight back.”_ He flickers, back in his element now that the chair across from him is empty. _“Sometimes I make Shepard sit with a book in his lap for hours. And you know what? A wise apprentice never complains.”_ He's hanging over the edge of his grate, watching me read. (It makes it easier to see the pages, which is nice. Baz's books are yellowed with age, the text faded and grey.)

“There has to be _something_ in here. The castle's practically a library.” One without _any_ sort of organisation, but even so. (A librarian would take one look around this place and experience a thorough Emotional Mudslide.)

“ _We've got books, sure, but do you know what you're looking for?”_

I scowl. Wisdom from a fireplace―that's just what I need. Most of me knows sleep is the best thing to face next, but I don't deserve it, after today. (Making things worse and failing to do right.) ( _The wrongs and the rights._ ) My eyes skim over words until they blur together into an incomprehensible lump, and I accept it's time to stop. Have I learnt anything useful? Only that old books are as intimidating today as they were yesterday. (And I'm great with a goat manual, but not so much other, more relevant subjects.)

Summer yawns _―_ at least _she_ doesn't seem to be holding our mad dash through the palace against me. (If anything, the violent exercise did her good _―_ she's been sleeping soundly all evening.) Shepard said after she arrived, pawing at the door and whining for entry, he had to shimmy a scrap of green fabric from between her teeth...a souvenir from the Mage's men, torn from a terrorised pair of trousers. I reach across to ruffle her ears, which she accepts drowsily.

"You're the hero, Summer, did you know?" Her ears lift to catch my whispers. "You ran around that palace like you knew where you were going. I'd never have found Baz without you."

She yips once, gruff and satisfied, then turns her head away.

“Is there any soup left? I'll take a bowl upstairs for Baz.” It sounds like a nice idea, even though I'll surely regret it _―_ the stairs are a mountain, the trek through his room like tackling an arcane obstacle course...and then there's the fact that he's furious with me. Still, I want to try. (Make a right from a wrong.) “Tea, too, if there's any.”

Shepard's up and reaching for the camomile tea bags before I can finish the thought. Calcifer's watching me _―_ his gaze is an actual burn, which I now know the feel of intimately, after the fire-breathing.

“What? I feel better. Not dragony at all.”

“ _Are you sure?”_ he ebbs. _“There’s not one measly epic ballad in your near future?”_

“No. Bugger off."

_"No disturbingly abstract thoughts? An aching need to alliterate?"_

"Fuck off, Calcifer. And stop staring at me.”

He crackles. _“_ _Don't mind me. I’m simply enjoying the view.”_

“Of what?” I ask, watching Shepard expertly slice the end off a loaf. I don't even try to control my tail as it jabs at the demon in the grate.

“ _Come on, kid―don't be like that.”_

I ignore him, grabbing the heel of bread off the counter and tossing it into the flames.

“There. Food. Happy?”

“ _You're a man after my own heart.”_

I roll my eyes, taking the tray and thanking Shepard. Somehow I manage to drag myself all the way upstairs without spilling anything, which is excellent news.

Baz's bedroom door is open, and I hover before the darkness. (Partly because I don't know if he wants to be reminded of my existence, and also because his room's a bleeding death trap.) (A stubbed toe awaits as soon as I step inside.)

“Baz?” I call quietly, and get no reply.

I step through and find something even more surprising than the debris I stumbled over last time.

Baz has cleared a path through the clutter _―_ a slim channel cutting across carpet, leading to his bed. I follow it, because it means no bones will be broken on this day. (Also, if I have to plan and execute a route of my own, the soup will definitely get cold.) (There are probably famous explorers lost in here somewhere, mummified in uncharted corners.)

I step on a couple of drawing pins and get an unidentified gemstone caught between my toes. (I abandoned my shredded footwear after having a bath, collapsing into clean clothes. Everything I wore today will have to be burnt, which at least will make Calcifer happy.) Swearing, I end up spinning in a crude circle, almost sloshing soup over the bed.

Baz stirs and groans in his nest of blankets. I make my way around the side of the mattress, peckish after all that climbing. (I’ve already had three bowls though, and that’s probably enough.) (Probably.)

“Sleeping?” I ask, because if a pointless question is ever required, I’m your man.

“Not anymore.” He pushes himself up against the headboard, one eye still closed, the other inspecting me warily. “What do you have there, Snow?”

I don’t like that we’re back to the Snow thing, but I was a prat of dragon-proportions earlier, and I don’t blame him for retreating. I’m going to have to re-earn those Simons, one by one.

“Brought you some soup. Camomile tea, too.”

He sneers as I slide the tray onto his lap. “Dare I touch anything wrought by a spiteful kitchen-lizard?”

I slump down onto the unidentified solid surface I occupied last time I was here. (It hasn't been tidied.) “I mean, you don’t have to. But it tastes good.”

He hums, turning his face from me as he starts in on the bread. I feel a bit weird, sitting here watching him eat, and the plan is to make my apologies and go. Last time we were here like this, it was _him_ apologising _…_ but Ebb always told me how important it was to say sorry, when it was my turn.

_Only say it when you mean it, and when the apology’s yours. Otherwise, sod ‘em._

The apology’s definitely mine. I wish I hadn’t let the magic get to me, but it’s been a trial and a half, and I reckon the dragon stuff pushed me over the edge. It’s not up to me when Baz tells me about the Mage _―_ he doesn’t have to tell me at all, does he? And I can't control what his life was like before he knew me. Maybe I’m upset because I want to help, but…being a well-meaning dickhead still means I was a dickhead.

I don’t really know what to say, and I’ve never been that great with words, so…maybe I’ll just start there.

“Dickhead, aren’t I?”

Baz chokes on a mouthful of boiled potato, splattering his shirt with soup. (It’s a white one. Silky. Crescent moons.) (I think it's a nightshirt.) I open my mouth to unleash more brilliance, and he jabs at me with his spoon.

“I beg your pardon? Are you still delirious?”

“No, look...what I said earlier. Throwing it in your face like that...it was shit of me. It was the last of the magic, yeah, but...sorry, you know? Shit. I _don't_ think you were like that. Before, right _―_ I mean, in all the time I've been here, I haven't seen you eat a single heart. And it'd be pretty hard to even _want_ to, right? Because I keep threatening you with food. Death by breakfast.”

He gives me a long, withering look. (If I left him alone in a room with Penny, I'm worried they'd actually get along.) (Or at least have a powerful influence on each other's facial expressions.) “I have a confession for you, Snow _._ I've never eaten a heart.”

“What? You've never...? But your _entire reputation_...!”

He chokes again, slopping peas and carrots down his chin. My tail lashes out to mop it up with a speared bit of blanket. “That’ll do, Snow, thank you. I’ll have drowned by the time you manage a coherent sentence.” He finishes off the bread, monitoring my tail with distrust. (Can't really blame him. The damn thing's a calamity.) “Whatever my reputation might suggest to the contrary, I can assure you it's true. Hearts are off the menu, and always have been.” He prods me with his spoon again. “So please, if you would...let it go?”

His voice cracks at the end, and a bit of _my_ heart does, too. My tail, because it's taken up the recently vacated role of Resident Bastard, stabs him in the thigh. He swears at me like a sailor _―_ which would be hilarious, if we weren't trying to work through something serious _―_ and I apologise again. “Spoon retaliation. Can't control it, can I? Sorry. Really. For everything.”

He sighs, sliding the tray off the bed and onto my knees. (I guess it’s my problem now, then?) (If he thinks I’m not vulgar enough to eat his leftovers right here in front of him, he’s wrong.) I pass him his tea and wait for him to take a sip. He winces and complains that it’s lukewarm, but drinks it down anyway. When the cup’s empty, my tail curls around the handle and drops it somewhere in the mire.

“How nice. A nurse of my own.” He pushes himself down into the blankets, and I don’t know why, but it makes me think of before, when we were in the field. (It wouldn’t be _that_ surprising if there was grass growing somewhere in here.) (Certain sorts of wildlife could surely make a good go of it, providing they don’t mind the dark.) "You weren't yourself earlier, Snow. I was right―my magic made a nuisance of you. No need to apologise."

"But I want to."

"Want to what?"

"Apologise. Let me?"

He huffs. "Fine. But you already have, so don't waste more words. It’s acceptable as is."

_Acceptable? Good. Well, then._

I get up to leave with his tray, feeling heavy after all that soup. (The pain's worth it. It tasted _good_.)

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs,” I say, stepping carefully over a cat statue that _might_ have been carved from jade. “I’ve got a blanket by the fire, and I’ve started looking in your books for helpful stuff.” Not that I particularly want to listen to Calcifer’s late-night grumblings as he moves the castle. Summer might try to curl in with me again, and at least she’s soft. She lay by me for a bit last night, but I was tossing so much she gave up and invaded Shepard's room, instead.

“Nonsense,” Baz says lightly, rolling onto his side. “The books aren’t going anywhere, though watching you read _would_ be an event, I’m sure. You’ll require actual sleep tonight, Snow. I won’t say it twice.”

And I can’t be sure, but…I mean, is this…? I don’t know. _Surely not_? He says he won’t say it twice, but it’d be helpful if he’d at least say it _once_.

Did Baz just invite me to get into bed? With him in it. Me and him? In a bed. One bed. _This_ bed.

Do I dare? Have I badly misunderstood things? It's the sort of mistake that can only end in death, so I need to be sure.

“Baz,” I gasp, taking the risk―I lift a handful of blankets, awaiting a scathing insult that doesn't arrive. “You're...you're wearing a _nightshirt_.”

He eyes me carefully, frowning. “Are you broken?”

_Well. I mean. Maybe? Fuck._

_(Was I supposed to bring pyjamas?)_

I put the tray down on what might once have been a table, climbing over debris to reach the other side of the bed. (Baz did a grand job of clearing a path from the door, but it means there’s even more stuff piled up around the edges. Piles on top of piles. Mountains of miscellany.) I hesitate again, but only for a second _―_ then I pull the blankets back and crawl in. My wings are in the way, so I bundle the covers around my waist and lie on my front, looking at the back of Baz’s head.

_Is this alright? Can I come any closer?_

I close my eyes and think how strange it is to be here. (It’s not uncomfortable.) (Definitely beats the fireplace.) I’m reliving bits from the palace _―_ fire, running, endless fucking stairs _―_ and then, as I knew it would, my thoughts settle on the Mage. His face blends with Lamb’s, ancient and wrong with a pencil-thin moustache, and I’m slipping into the sort of sleep I’ll race to wake from. I feel soft fabric brushing my fingers, and then my arm shifts _―_ Baz is shuffling against me, chin resting on my forehead. I lift my hand and drape it over his side. (He’s warm from the bed.)

“Simon,” he breathes, a sigh against the pillow. _Simon._ “Tomorrow. I'll tell you about the Mage.”

I wait. (I'd wait a long time, to know where this road goes.)

“Alright, yeah,” I mumble. “Tomorrow.”

“You have to trust me,” he says, and I hope he knows how much I do.

_I don't, for one second, believe that you're heartless._

“You told me you don't trust anyone.” I thought it was sad when he said it, but I don't know. It might make things easier.

“I trust you,” he whispers. “I do trust you...Simon, I let you throw me out of a bloody window.”

My breath warms his neck with a laugh. "You found me," I murmur. "It's the least I could do, not to kill you."

I hold him lightly, like he isn't there at all. He snakes an arm over my waist, and we slide slowly into sleep. My tail curls around his bare leg, a wing rising to fold over us, shutting us out from the rest of the castle. We're in the field again, apart from everything _―_ high in the air, ignorant of time.

At some point in the night, Baz rolls onto his back and I go with him, kissing a constellation over his collarbones. His hands brush up along my shirt, and I feel him on my skin through the fabric. The scales haven't come back, and I wonder if this means the Wraith's curse might be falling apart…if the magic Baz shared was enough to bring me to the surface.

We stay like that, a dragon curled around its riches. (And I know, I know this is worth more than gold and glitter.)

In the morning he'll show me what’s been lurking in the dark. I'll learn what he's been running from.

The palace, smoke pouring from a cracked window.

(Baz's fingers dance a melody down my back.)

Wings, steady against wind.

(Us, outside of time.)

I lie all night with my head on his chest, waiting for light.

And I don't hear his heart beat once.


	8. Here's the magic

When I wake, there's light in the room.

I stir, eyes gummy with sleep, seeking the source. _Did Baz lose his temper in the night and smash a hole in the wall? Did my tail decide to express its artistic side?_ The other—admittedly more sensible—possibility is a window, but surely I would've noticed it before? Unless Baz tidied so thoroughly last night, he cleaned right through the stone.

There's only one way to know for certain. (Well, I _could_ get up and investigate.) (Nah.)

Is it always lethal, waking a wizard? What are the survival rates?

Baz is sleeping next to me. _On_ me, really—one leg over my hip and his hands by his head, like something strewn artistically on the bed, destined to be painted. He looks peaceful, but the mysterious light's starting to bother me, and it's not like there's anybody else here to ask. (Unless that stuffed owl on his headboard has any thoughts.)

“Baz.”

Nothing.

“Baz?”

He moans, face scrunched, a hand emerging to swat at me.

“Baz. Wake up. Important question.”

I feel all of him sigh, arching his back to stretch against me, and I'm thinking that waking him up was a _very_ good idea. Then I watch his face go through the swift, unforgiving motions required to form a scowl. “What is it, you pest?”

“Good morning to you, too. Where's that light coming from?”

“Is this truly worth waking me for, Snow?”

“Simon. And yes, it's annoying me. Can't you magic it away?”

“It's—? No, don't. Let me sleep, you welt. After yesterday, to finally have this chance to rest properly, only for you to wake me with inane questions...”

I take a pillow and hit him in the face with it. (Playfully.) He smacks me back with one that's as firm as a house brick. (Not playfully.)

“Fuck! Are you trying to knock my teeth out?”

“If it would lessen the immediate threat you pose to my sleep, then yes.”

“You're melodramatic, you know that, right? Completely out of line.” I wrestle the rock hard pillow out of his hands and lob it into the mass of unidentified stuff next to the bed. “It's an innocent question. I don't remember it being light in here before. What's that about?”

“It was _night time_ when you crept in here like a petulant spider, Snow, and made yourself at home in my bed. Night is a natural conclusion to day. No part of this should be surprising.”

“It's not surprising,” I say quickly. (I haven't been up here in the day, have I? Should've thought this through.) (He's going to think I was looking for any old excuse to wake him up.) (Well...) “Didn't realise there was a window, that's all.”

Baz huffs. “I uncovered it when I cleaned. Does that makes things easier for you?”

I _knew_ it. “Thought so. And _you_ invited _me_ into bed, tosser.” He goes to clobber me with another pillow—I'm not convinced it isn't a sheet stuffed with quarry stone, to be honest — but I'm too fast, grabbing his wrists and holding them at his sides. (This nightshirt's flimsy enough to see through in places, and I can't see any black veins on him this morning.) (Not that I'm deliberately trying to see through his clothes.) (But he's right _there_.) “Why were you tidying?”

I mean, after he indirectly, unhelpfully and downright confusingly asked me to stay last night, I think I know. But maybe a bit of the dragon-hangover's still clinging to me, because I'm feeling rascal enough to make him say it.

He rolls his eyes. (Might as well get started early.) “So that whomsoever was kind enough to bring me dinner would find their way without breaking their neck. Which I realised was a wasted effort, when your curly head appeared between my bed posts. Honestly, I've never known such clumsiness.” His eyes narrow. They're lighter this morning—he's looking loads better.

“I didn't break my neck, though. No toes, either.”

“Congratulations. You can successfully navigate a room.”

“Yeah, and I was about to navigate my way _out_ of it just as successfully, but you—then. Well. It was _your_ idea.”

“What was?” he sneers, making me flinch as his hand smooths down the nearest pillowcase. “Us falling asleep together? Or, more accurately, _you_ snoring your head off whilst I lay awake, trying to escape your suffocating grip.”

I huff. My face is burning. _What is this? Why are we arguing?_

Baz seems really into it.

(Is this foreplay?)

“What are you spluttering about now, Snow?”

I _am_ spluttering. I just didn't realise I'd been doing it out loud.

 _Well...I didn't think he'd actually_ say _it_.

_I should say something harsh, right? In a nice way. That's how these things go?_

Instead, I smack him with another pillow and go after him, knocking him back onto the bed and accidentally catching his eye with my thumb.

“Sorry! Sorry. Didn't mean to do that.” I hold his face in my hands, wondering if there are any spells to reverse a good blinding—and he's rubbing at it, even though Ebb always said rubbing at things only makes them worse, and—

Wait, his eyeball _isn't_ splattered over the sheets.

Baz's face emerges unmarked, and he frowns at my hands, holding them up to the light. (A window!) (I bet the view's great from up here.) “How are you feeling today, darling dragon?”

I hope he doesn't want to talk about yesterday. _I won't mention the cavity in your chest if you won't mention me turning into a scaly bard and setting fire to the Mage's palace. He's definitely going to be pissed off with us for that, by the way.  
_

“Fine. Alright, I s'pose. Been worse. Had a pretty good night's sleep.”

He's looking at my hands strangely, and I realise why.

Yesterday, the scales vanished from my back. This morning, my fingers _don't_ end in claws.

“Baz...my hands...” The scales are still there, but I've got normal fingernails. (Stubby, picked, a little bit grimy.) (Maybe the claws were an improvement.)

He folds his fingers over my own, pressing them against his chest. He looks at me, face stern and solemn, then bows his head slowly.

“A moment of silence, please.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

_Is it your heart, or lack thereof?_

He looks up, and I swear he's feeling as rascal as I am.

“Today we mourn the passing of the fabled butter claw. Gone from this world too soon, leaving us unprepared to face the trials ahead. Will Snow adapt to life with a knife in hand, or will he—”

“Oh, bugger _off_ ,” I say, a desolate future of cutlery and stifling table manners unravelling before me. “I'll have to use a _butter_ _knife_. Baz, no—quick, you need to _**congeal**_ me again. Actually, I'll do it myself.” This outrageous development is a convenient excuse for me to tackle him, which I do, pushing him over backwards again and making absolutely sure there's nowhere on his person he could be hiding his wand. (His _magic_ wand.) (Not his...well, you know.) (His _wand_.)

Anyway, I take my time, and when I'm done I'm damned sure his nightshirt doesn't have any secret pockets. Not one. (And I don't get my hands on his wand, so he must have it hidden somewhere else.)

“I like waking up with you,” I laugh, mouth clicking shut when I realise what I've said.

_Too much. Fuck. Retract, reverse, retreat!_

But Baz has got this red tinge to his cheeks, so it might not be a total disaster.

“Menace,” he mutters. “Absolute nightmare.”

He doesn't mean it. At least...I don't _think_ so. (He smiles as he says it.)

We lie still for a bit, watching the dust cloud above our heads, a clanking sound from below letting us know someone else is already up and making breakfast. (Probably Shepard, unless Summer's mastered the art of cookery with four paws.) (I wouldn't put it past her.) I've got my head on his chest again, listening to the silence where there ought to be a beat, wondering how rude it would be to point it out.

I know what he'd say. _I'm aware, Snow_ _—_ _I announced it to the room. I have no heart._

But then...what about the teapot necklace? The rooftop? Coming through the palace window?

Sharing his magic? Buying me scones? Saving me from soldiers? Leaving a bar of soap by the bath?

Giving me his mum's scarf? Visiting the farm? Burning my conscription orders?

Letting me kiss him? Letting me kiss him _again_? Asking me to kiss him and threatening me with a curse if I didn't kiss him immediately?

_Baz, you do have a heart._

_Where is it?_

I don't dare throw that many questions at him first thing in the morning...I should spread them out throughout the day. Break him down with a creeping curosity, so he doesn't realise it's happening.

_You are not heartless. (I've seen it.) (You've shown me.)_

_But...where_ is _your heart?_

“You're thinking again,” he murmurs. I feel his breath along the back of my neck. “You practically sing with it.”

“Yeah, thinking's necessary sometimes, even for me.” I sit up, looking at the newly discovered window, small and high in the wall. It's good that he's letting a bit of light in. The mess in here's visible now, and that'll make it easier to tidy. Plus I'll be able to see what I'm tripping over, at the moment of contact. Stare it in the face on my way down.

“Now then, you can take your frenetic mind downstairs whilst I get dressed. Then we'll see about the day.”

I remember with a twist what he said last night, before sleep came for us. _(I'll tell you about the Mage.)_ I jump out of bed, fastening a few undone buttons and making a futile attempt to flatten my curls.

“Don't take three hours—you look fine as you are. One hour, that'll do.”

“You would lecture me on my sartorial choices, Snow? I suppose I _should_ hurry. I dread to think how much food you can shovel down your gullet, if left unattended for three hours.”

_A lot, Basilton. Many a rasher would fall._

I shrug at him. “Just wear brown. Easy then, isn't it?”

His lip curls. “ _Just wear brown,_ he says. What the blazes were you taught on that goat farm? Were you raised as an actual goat? Get out, Snow. I'll be down when I'm ready.”

And I go, crashing into a pile of poorly stacked goblets as he lobs another pillow at me, knocking over a jewel-encrusted trident. Eventually I reach the safety of the cleared path.

“Baz, you did a half-arsed job at tidying. Sort it out.”

“Get out of my room before I impale you on that trident.”

We look at each other, then at the trident. _Don't. Don't say anything. Walk away._

“Walk away, Snow.”

See. It's the best thing for everyone.

I'm tempted to take the piss anyway, but I _do_ want to get a few answers out of him today, instead of endlessly adding to the list of questions in my head.

I need to find a way to help him.

It's probably best if he begins his sacred bathroom torture rituals now, _before_ breakfast, so I'm not left starving _and_ frustrated when he finally tells me about the Mage. (Just frustrated, which I can cope with.) (Sod being hungry.)

I'm practically skipping down the stairs, which is new for me, and also sort of awkward, because my toe-claws have disappeared and I don't get as much grip without them. I take stock of the rest of me—wings, tail, fangs, scales—all present and accounted for. But my back's clear and my fingers and toes can no longer be used to rip out a man's throat. (Or something more domestic, like tightening a loose screw.) Either the Wraith had a change of heart about me, the hatred inside him slowly unwinding, or he's already found a new object of obsession and this is him forgetting to hate me. (Potted plants, maybe. Or board games.) (Something more benign than stalking.)

Downstairs I find Shepard frying eggs on Calcifer's face, reciting some of yesterday's observational post-vampire vampire notes, though the fire seems far from captivated. (More _captive_.)

“ _Simon_ ,” he flares, seeing me coming. _“Thank all that's unholy. Did you trim your toenails? I didn't hear you coming.”_

In reply, I stand awkwardly on one leg and lift up my foot, wiggling my toes towards the flames.

“Simon, come on, not in front of the eggs!” Shepard pleads, shifting the pan away. Summer barks her objection from the table, tail thumping against her stack of hardbacks.

“Thought you'd be pleased for me, that's all,” I mutter, moving to the counter and beginning the hunt for butter. “Are we only having eggs or is there something I can spread stuff on?”

“Eggs on toast,” Shepard says, pushing another log into the grate. “I went out into the city this morning—your city—to get more wood. Hopefully Baz won't mind. The streets were empty and nobody recognised me—I guess conscription's hitting everywhere pretty hard, huh?”

I think about my letter as it went up in flames, in Baz's hand. “Yeah. Seems like a lot of people have been recruited.”

I wonder where Gareth is right now? At the barracks in East Witherford?

 _Hold on, you prat. Don't beat any enemy soldiers with a shoe. We need a bit of time to figure this out, and then you can go back to the cheese stuff._ From what Penny said, maybe he wouldn't _want_ to return to the farm...

But he'd want to _live_ , right?

It feels foolish even thinking we could stop a war.

I need some of yesterday's epic poetry to inspire the narrative.

I arrange the butter, salt and pepper (and cutlery!) on the table in front of me, setting out plates for everyone else. Summer nudges my wrist as I get her spot ready for breakfast, shuffling something across the table with her nose.

“What's this?”

Baz's sea-green earring. I must've left it down here last night, after my bath. I push it back across the table towards the dog. She whines at me morosely.

“Did you find this in the palace? The Wraith had it.”

Summer shakes her ears, barking at Shepard as he comes over with the cooked eggs, making sure everyone knows who gets first pick. I pull a runny egg onto my plate, my head filling with nefarious plans for its fate. Summer noses the earring towards Shepard, but he's too busy with his spatula to care much for jewellery.

Calcifer, finally free of the marauding pan, peers at me from his throne of logs. _“Fat load of help you were.”_ His dark eyes inch over me, settling on my hair. (Tousled. That's the word Penny would use. Gareth would opt for something less generous, like _fucking rat's nest._ ) _“Ah, look at you. Are you done beguiling my wizard?”_

I spit egg yolk down myself, cough over a crust and knock tea over the table in one fast, unforgivable flurry. Summer growls and Shepard yelps, shuffling off into the kitchen for a tea towel.

“For the love of fuck,” I splutter, immediately regretting my choice of words. “If you're... _no._ I want to make that perfectly clear. Everyone's in...in...” _(Don't say it don't say it don't say it.)_ “...intact. We're all intact.” ( _Shit._ )

Well, there it is. What did Baz call me yesterday, a _tactless idiot_?

“ _Good to know, kid. If he gets stressed, you know about the tea and stretching?”_

“ _What?_ Look, just because you...it doesn't mean—!”

“ _Toss me an egg shell, will you? And close your mouth before you start catching flies.”_

I return, face burning, to my breakfast. _He's just upset because I slept upstairs, and he couldn't borrow my heat._ I'm four rounds of toast and three eggs deep when Baz finally makes an appearance, looking like he mugged a passing lavender salesman. He's got this light, shimmery shirt on, with cuffs that shine in different shades of purple when he moves his hands—rich magenta blurring into an almost-grey.

It's the prettiest thing I've ever seen.

I'm abruptly aware I'm going to spend a large part of today staring at his hands. His boots match and his earrings match and the ends of his hair flash lilac.

Bloody lovely all over, really.

And I like it even more because it means he's feeling better—I can't see a single dark vein on him. (And I got a good look earlier.) (I was _thorough_.) The grey rings under his eyes are gone, too...he must have had a really good bath. And yeah, I suppose we slept well. I woke up a few times to check he was still there...he couldn't have gone anywhere if he'd wanted to, to be honest. I was a dead weight wrapped around him.

He slides into the chair next to me, patting Summer on the head and expertly dodging her vindictive attempt to maul his hand. He doesn't really seem that into food—which I can't understand, but I'm trying—but he gets stuck into his egg on toast without me having to badger him, and asks for the salt.

“Thought you didn't like it.”

“I don't like salt in my salted butter, Simon. That's fair. _Sane_ , some might say.” He sneers at me. “I will, however, lightly salt my egg.”

Calcifer perks up from the comfort of his wooden perch. _“Ask Simon to lightly salt your egg. I'm sure he's more than willing.”_

“Oh, sod off,” I spit. “Salt his egg—what does that even _mean_?”

Baz is frowning—I pass him the shaker before he grumps himself out of an appetite. _He called me Simon. In front of the fireplace! That's good, right?_ I slip Calcifer a smug glance, even though I don't know why he'd care. He seems to prefer it when Baz insults him. (The nastier the better.)

“ _You two seem cheery this morning.”_

I'm _humming_. Absentmindedly. Have I ever absentmindedly hummed before? Fuck.

“I slept well,” Baz says, evenly distributing salt over his breakfast, examining it from every angle.

“ _I bet you did, you dog.”_

Baz is back to frowning. “I should hope you're addressing the actual dog at the table, Calcifer.”

“ _If it makes you feel better to think that.”_ A pause. Shepard tosses the last of the eggshells into the fireplace, and the demon snaps through them in seconds. _“Basil, might I make a personal enquiry? Did our resident surly snake happen to beg-”_

“No, I bloody well did _not!_ ” I shout, throwing my knife at the fire. (It bounces off and ends up sticking out of a book about _Proper Campfire_ _Management_ , which is annoyingly relevant.) You can't stab fire, so the entire scene only causes Calcifer's cackles to intensify, and I'm down a knife _and_ a butter claw.

It's a dark day. My toast is a dry and desolate desert. A butterless wasteland.

“Can I have another knife, please?”

“Afraid not,” Shepard says, all too agreeably. “Unless you're volunteering to wash the dishes? That'd be great. Thanks so much, Simon. It'll free up time for my research.”

I realise the gravity of my error as Baz sniggers beside me, runny egg yolk dripping onto his plate. (How are his fingers _not_ greasy horrors?) (He's replaced his missing rings with plain silver bands, and I think I want to...kiss _._..his _fingers_?) (Is that unhygienic?)

“ _You've nothing but time, apprentice, what with the shop fronts being closed.”_

“I still need to keep the castle stocked and sweep out your grate, don't I, Calcifer? I guess I could neglect to keep up with the housework for a few days. It'll get done eventually. I'm sure Summer would love to be in charge of the wood pile for a day.”

I stare incredulously at Baz. “Did Shepard just _threaten_ the fireplace?”

Baz is equally amazed, toast halfway to his face, lips agape. We haven't kissed yet this morning, and that seems like a waste of mouth, if you ask me. Would he kiss me after egg on toast, or would he spend an hour in the bathroom brushing his teeth first? Shepard found a spare toothbrush for me, but I need a fucking wire broom for my fangs. Maybe Baz just spells his clean?

Calcifer and Shepard are proper getting into it now, bickering about wood quality and what terrible things might happen, if Calcifer's logs were to mysteriously turn damp overnight.

“The two of you can continue your pantomime quibbling the entire day, for all I care. I'm afraid I will require Simon's assistance with something outside of the castle, and so he will be unavailable to do the washing up. Adjust your plans accordingly.”

“ _But you were out all day yesterday!”_ the fire moans. _“And things did not go well. How much trouble must you embroil yourself in, you magickal blood clot?”_

“Calcifer, I didn't know you cared,” Baz drawls.

“ _I don't want any more rickety vampires occupying my castle, do you hear?”_

“Oh, please do!” Shepard pipes up, bright with interest. “Absolutely any magickal creatures you bump into are most welcome here, Simon. I can make tea, read them a book...”

“ _Just imagine—a vampire, dragon and assorted ghoul book club, right here in the kitchen. Slurping up Baz's camomile.”_

“A book club? Great idea, Cal! Imagine the _discussions_ —”

“ _No, let's not. This ends in flames, at best.”_

I'm staring at my pathetic piece of toast, listening to them quarrel, wishing someone would offer me their knife so I don't have to look like a mannerless git by nicking one.

_Baz needs my assistance. What with?_

He's going to tell me about the Mage, but maybe to do that there's some sort of labour involved, first? The way he's dressed, he probably needs me to lie across a puddle or something. (I'd do it, too. He looks fucking _lovely_.) Or maybe it's a small lie, to see us through the door without interrogation.

Last time Baz took me out for the day, we ended up on the roof of Penny's bakery, laughing about a lie he told. I wouldn't mind if today went a bit like that, to be honest. Except this time we both come back to the castle, instead of him sodding off on his own all night.

And this time we'll be laughing over a truth, not a lie.

“Where are you off to?” Shepard asks, pouring tea into Summer's saucer. “Need me to check on the valley and city doors while you're gone?”

“Yes, that would be helpful,” Baz replies, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Make sure there's nothing sinister on the doorsteps. And bring in any post—feed it to that putrefying pustule in the fireplace.” He grimaces, no doubt contemplating the dirge that is the Post Office, now complicit in his financial ruin. Shepard says there's enough money to last, and we'll have to hope he's as meticulous about counting as he is about note-taking.

“Well, have a great day! Simon, if you happen to fly again, could you write down a few words describing how it feels? The first three adjectives that come into your head. Don't worry about detail. I want _emotion_.”

Why does everyone think they can get linguistic with me after yesterday? Alright, so things were blurry and poetic for a minute, there. I lost my temper and assaulted the desiccated coconut previously known as Lamb. I'm not saying it was my finest moment, but we need to move past it. Baz's magic has worn off, my dragon-hangover's gone, and I'm back to being Simon.

Shepard wants me to write a _description_ of flying? It'd be fiction if I said I weren't trying to find the right words to trap this side of my undying curse within verse. (Oh, alright, here we go. Fucking _internal rhyming._ ) (Thanks a lot, Shepard. Fuck _me._ )

“I can provide you with a few choice adjectives now, and save you the suspense,” Baz says, flicking his hair out of his face and pushing back from the table. His eyes land on something beneath his plate, and he leans in to peer at it. “What is this...?”

Shepard's slathering a round of toast with butter for Summer, though I'm convinced it can't be good for her. “Nice thought, Baz—philosophical, you know? _What is this, what is flight?_ But I was thinking more about how it _feels_ _—_ a gut response. Simon, any thoughts? Maybe I could coax it out of you over another cup of tea?”

Every part of me is aching to say yes. I turned down tea yesterday—am I fated to do the same today? I shouldn't have to feel distrustful of hot drinks _._

I'm too mesmerised by Summer's toast and Shepard's offer to notice what Baz lifts from under the plate, dangling in the space between us.

_Maybe she won't be able to manage the whole slice. She's quite dainty, really. Spaniels always look sort of elegant, don't they? Would it be that bad if I finished it off for her? Baz keeps calling me an animal and kissing me anyway, so maybe he wouldn't mind._

I'm trying to think of a subtle way of sliding in for a breakfast snog when something glints, and I see the earring again, sea-green and shine.

“Where did this come from?” Baz asks, focused on Summer. (She does have this natural unseemliness about her.) (Like if you turn your back for a second, she'll ruin your livelihood.)

“The Wraith gave it to me.” I remember what he said as he dropped it in my hand. _For you, lad._ “I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. He must've found it in the burning room. After the burning stopped, obviously.”

Baz isn't happy. He strides over to the fire, flinging the earring at Calcifer. “Here, you noxious aroma. Can you melt this and see if there's a curse inside, courtesy of the Wraith?”

Calcifer sizzles and pops, sparking green. _“It's clean. Quality emerald_ _—_ _delicious! Thank you, my lovely lesion.”_

Baz turns back to the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This should not have left the palace.”

“Summer didn't find it. That's what she told me, at least...it must've been the Wraith.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Speak spaniel, do we, Snow?”

“Piss off,” I bark. (Fuck's sake.)

“ _I can't see that wrinkly waste making it to the shop from the palace by himself, can you? He must have had help. Perhaps the Mage's men were feeling remorseful.”_

We look at Summer as she graces us with a glare of such contempt, it's almost excruciating.

“ _Simon, what's she saying? You said you speak dog.”_

I cross my arms, refusing to answer. _If they're going to sit here and have a good laugh at my expense, I will not make it easy for them._ My tail slides up along the back of the chair, ambushing my dry, cold, toast with butter. (A natural successor to the butter claw.)

“Animal,” Baz mutters, shaking his head. Summer hops down from the table and trots off upstairs, leaving me to horrify the rest of the room by folding the entire piece of bread into my mouth in one go. _Airways be damned._

“ _Simon, you're a treasure, have I told you so? Speaking of treasure, your jewellery's long gone, Basil. Nothing to worry about.”_

“And you're sure he hadn't cursed it? Not even a minor malediction?”

“ _There was nothing there, I promise you. As if that wreck of a Wraith had a single competent curse left in him. Even if he had tucked a love bite away somewhere, what's he going to do? Bang on the door with his cane until you let him in?”_

“What do curses taste like, Calcifer?” Shepard asks. He's feeling inspired, and I hope he can get a bit of work done, in between the demon's verbal bombardments. “Could you give me three words?”

“ _Oh, I'll give you three very specific words. Do you have any pencils left or did I eat them all yesterday? I'll wait until you're ready. This will be a description for the ages. You'll want this in your book, apprentice.”_

Baz rolls his eyes and takes me by the elbow, guiding me away from the table towards the door. “You can't possibly still be hungry. Shall we?”

And for however nice the morning has been, I remember what the rest of the day holds, and what might be waiting outside the castle.

"What if someone sees me? Do you need to spell my wings and tail off?"

He grimaces. "There's no one where we're going. You'll be fine."

Truth, then. _An echo, an inkling_.

“Alright,” I croak, clearing my throat. “I'm ready.”

He lets go of my arm, looking up at the dial as it starts to spin, before settling with finality on the moon door. _Anything I like. Anywhere I'd rather be._ I look at him and see that beneath the glitter and artifice, he's nervous.

“Where are we going?” I whisper, as Calcifer says something so outrageous, it has both him and Shepard in fits of choked laughter.

_Where's the truth?_

“In three words, Snow?” he replies, voice tight. “Home before home.”

The door opens on green and blue, an ocean of flowers and in the distance, what looks like a lake lit under a spring sky.

_Home before home._

He places a hand on my back, and I walk through the door ahead of him.

  
  


* * *

  
  


We're in a valley.

Not _my_ valley—there's no smog spiralling through the clouds, no motorcars blocking the lanes. I can't hear horns or hooves clopping, or the bleat of miscreant goats. I can't hear much of anything, really—wind in the grass, birds, burbling water, another pissed off sheep. That's it. (Are sheep always pissed off?)

It's quiet. I usually fight to fill quiet, but right now, I want it to reign.

Baz starts down the slope, sleeves sparkling, and ahead of us I see a stretch of water, its surface flat and glistening. I think about the first night I saw the castle—the way the moon broke apart on the water. But there's no gothic manor resting its legs nearby this time—there's nothing at all, except for what might be ruins and a river of grass. As far as I can see in any direction, the world is green—dipping hills and what might be a dirt path cutting across them, far off to our left.

“Where are we?”

He holds out a hand to me, fingers loaded with glimmer, and I reach for him. We go skidding down the hill, tripping and laughing, my wings flapping us upright when Baz topples over the lip of a mole hill and we're almost sent flying. (Well, falling.) (I don't _think_ I could fly again.) (Could I?)

After we scrape ourselves out of a tangle, knocking petals and pollen off ourselves, we look around and take it in.

It's beautiful. It's unsung. It's _wanting_. (There's three words for you, Shepard.)

I don't know where we are, but I love it.

“I lived here,” Baz says, as if he can hardly believe it himself. As if it happened in a dream. “We're near the south-eastern border of the kingdom. Have you ever been?”

I shake my head. “Never been anywhere, really. I stay up on the hill and see to the goats. Sometimes I go to see Penny in the city, but that's it.” I _did_ have that recent excursion to the capital city, but that's probably best left unmentioned.

We start walking again, skirting the water—it's crystal clear, pebbles and weeds shimmering up from the bottom. The air here's completely different from the valley—cleaner, crisper. We don't get much news from the border towns, and customers in the cheese shop only ever mutter about them suspiciously, as though the people there are traitors simply for living close to another kingdom. I don't know which foreign land we're nearing, now. We used to do trade with all of them before the Mage—Ebb told me about it. Now things are closed down and we keep to ourselves. (Except for when we're bombing them, I suppose.)

I look up—no warplanes. No sight nor sound of carnage. Baz sees me looking and licks his lip.

“The war in these parts ended years ago. We're quite safe.”

Ebb would like it here. I could see her, sitting by the lake with her goats and a cheese sandwich, harking on about Gareth's deficiencies. (I was her favourite. Or at least that's what she told _me_.)

Baz doesn't reach out for my hand this time, so I take his, instead. He tries to smile. We're in a beautiful place, but I don't think he brought me here to appreciate the scenery.

“Who are we even at war with?” I feel like I should know, but it was never made clear. Announcements are made about _the enemy_ , and for most people, that's enough. After a lifetime of it, it blurs into one. We could be at war with ourselves and I'm not sure I'd notice.

“A land to the north. Does it matter? It's all the same.”

He sounds defeated. The wonder's gone out of his voice.

I don't like it.

We're following the edge of the lake, grass greener here than atop the hill where we came through. The sky is almost clear of cloud, deep blue and endless. I squeeze his fingers in the hopes he'll squeeze back. (He does.) It's different without claws, and I like it a lot more. (I know it's not hurting him.)

If I close my eyes and take a step in faith, I almost feel normal. Yesterday's fire, the fear...forgotten.

I open my eyes when my foot knocks against something hard. I'm kicking at rocks and rubble now, skimming the edge of my shoe against the ruins we could see, from the top of the hill.

Baz walks next to me with his head down. I look around at ravaged archways, cracked foundations and toppled pillars, realising with a growing sense of dread where we must be. We reach a heap of black stone carved into a crouched figure, its head lopped clean off.

“Baz. Is that a gargoyle?”

I don't think he can say. He puts his hand against what's left of a wall and shudders.

I keep walking, running my hands over what's left of a room, edging around what were once steps leading down. Much of the ruins have been reclaimed—weeds and flowers jut through, growing into the cracks. It's been years since anyone walked here like we are now—in some parts the grass reaches up to my waist, bright bursts of colour and flowers I've never seen before, erupting from emerald. I see insects, mice, butterflies, birds—all sorts of life, flourishing where life ended.

That has to be what happened. Something ended here, and I'm looking at piles of stone, anticipating what that might have been.

_This ends in flames, at best._

“Baz,” I say, making my way back to him. “Can you tell me where we are?”

And he looks so distant, so _blank_ , that for a moment I really don't think he can. I'm worried the words have left him and he's just going to stand here in his finery, looking weak and lovely until I can drag him back up the hill to the moon door.

Then he lifts his face, and I see everything there.

Everything he was running from, everything he's frightened of.

_The wrongs and the rights._

“Simon, I lived here. This was my house.”

Three words. _Stone, grass, ruin._

He takes me into what was once the kitchen and we lie among the weeds. I don't ask—I won't. I'll wait.

_This is where the road goes._

“My house burnt down.”

And I remember how he didn't hesitate yesterday, using his wand to set the palace's doorway on fire.

_(Leave me here. The fire is for me.)_

“Your house...” I whisper, clearing my throat. “It looked like the castle, right? I think Shepard told me when I first arrived...you based the castle on your childhood home.”

“Yes. Although I used stone in place of wood, where possible.”

“Turrets and gargoyles. And a balcony.”

“I'm sure you can imagine how ridiculous it looked, out here in the middle of nowhere. But it was a passion project of my mother's—she'd had the blueprints drawn up in her head as a girl. She poured all of her magic, all that she _was_ , into building it.”

“And you lived here. Was it just you and her?”

“No. There was my father, of course—he lives in a nearby town now, having since remarried and produced various curious children. I think of my half-siblings as gremlins, and if you met them, you'd understand why.” He bites his lip. “My aunt would visit often. Since the fire I see her only by passing chance—she wanders the other kingdoms like some sort of unruly, transient necromancer, getting into pub fights.” His eyebrows rise. “Possibly my fate in life. We'll see.”

“Do they look like you?”

“Who? My aunt and her cohorts?”

“No, your siblings.” I spend a moment imagining it. Miniature versions of Baz—black hair, glitter and furious eyebrows.

“Is that the most pressing thing on your mind at present?”

“Sorry. You _did_ say they were curious, and one of you's a lot, you know? And I mean...” Now _I'm_ biting my lip. (Which is bad, because fangs are unfriendly things.) “I want to ask the big question, right. But I won't. Not if you don't want to answer it.”

“ _The big question_? I suspect yesterday's dramatics haven't quite worn off.”

“Sod off, Baz. I'm trying to be considerate.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let's hear it, then. Your big, considerate question.”

“Fine.” I snap a blade of grass and pass it under my nose. It smells like spring, like outside and sunlight. I bet it was nice, living here as a kid. “You don't have to answer me.”

Baz looks withdrawn, tied into himself. Tired, when he was so alive in the castle. “Spit it out, Snow. The tension may prove fatal.”

He's only being like this because he's anxious. (Afraid.)

But maybe if I want a straight answer, I'll need to ask a straight question.

 _Just be sure you're ready for those fair answers when you go around demanding 'em, lad._ Ebb. One of the last things she said to me. _Questions echo, Simon. They echo through time._

I'm ready to know. (How can I help if I don't _know_?)

“Baz...why did your house burn down?”

_Why did it end in flames?_

He sits up, dandelion tufts floating around his head. I feel for a moment like we're in a daydream, and there's nothing real about this at all. He gets to his feet, violent dark against the shine, and passes under a crumbled archway. I'm trying to picture the castle's interior to place where we are, but I'm soon lost, following him through the bones of where he was born.

“Do you remember what I told you about magic?” He turns to face me, hands hugging his sides. He's closed off from me now, but I hope he can open up again slowly. I hope we can find a way through.

“Um,” I say, buying time. What _has_ he told me about magic? “Magic sharing is dangerous? I bloody well know that for myself, don't I? And you said...you said the caster needs to want it? Which is why I'm still **_embellished_** , because the Wraith's a prick. And...” His heart's on my mind since last night, and wasn't there something about that? “...you said that a wizard's heart is his magic. Or the other way around?”

He manages a shrug, which is better than nothing. “A wizard's heart is his magic.” He slips a hand inside his shirt and pulls out his teapot necklace. “After my mother died, the magic she'd placed in here...it was all that remained of her. She might have survived the fire, if she hadn't put so much of herself into everything else. This house, the necklace, those she met...everything was worth her magic, Simon. She gave it freely.”

_She might have survived the fire._

_Oh. Oh, no._

His face closes, and I'm worried he's going to turn blank. But then his defences topple and he crumples, instead. He folds himself over a rock, hiding from me.

I wait. (I'd wait forever. For him to be ready, to be here with me.)

(To know.)

Finally he sits up, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. His hair's in his face, and I can't see how he looks when he says it.

“He calls it the Reform.”

The what? Who?

“The Mage and my mother...they knew each other. We were one of the old magickal families, and she served on their Coven. They were...a varied people. They had differing opinions.”

Fuck it. I'm not going to stand here and wait for him to fall to pieces. I kneel down and reach in, moving his hair back so I can get to him. I push my nose against his cheek—not much, but it's something.

Three words. _Me, with you._

He collects himself. “The Mage. It was his vision, his life's work—a great gathering of magic, of _all_ magic, consolidated in one place. He imagined each of the old families donating to this great vat of knowledge and power, that was to be accessed in a time of need. He believed it would be the kingdom's greatest defence—a deterrent against our neighbours, should envious heads turn our way...” He sighs, shoulders slumping. My tail wraps around his arm, and he doesn't fight it off. (It does, occasionally, try to be nice.) “Magic's true meaning. Magic for all.”

Honestly, the _idea_ of it isn't horrible. I've never bought a spell from a wizard, but loads of people depend on it. There are countless remedies and cures out there, and most of the traders don't charge an arm or a leg. (Got to watch out for the ones that do, though. You'll be out on a limb before you know it.)

Magic can be helpful. Letting everyone use it sounds fair, but... _stealing_ it?

Well. _That's_ not on.

And killing for it...

Three words. _This won't do._

“The old families—and almost every other wizard in the land—abhorred the idea. The Mage has his own magic—how could he not understand _why_? Magic is a gift, a giving—and it's dangerous. To take all of the magic in the land and amass it...no, it could never happen, however rosy the reason. The entire Coven and the king's own council opposed him. And so he took matters into his own hands.”

“He started to steal it,” I realise. “Put it in this reform thing, and...what? Kept it safe, used it in his war?”

Baz sighs. “He believed that magic was a right, and not only for those born to it. It was his dream to present the king with his plans and seek his approval, and the Coven's condemnation could not dissuade him. A programme of required magic sharing would have followed the Reform's introduction, rolled out to all registered wizards...though of course, _sharing_ wasn't paramount.”

“Taking. Stealing.”

Might as well make three words of it, make Shepard proud.

_Hoarding._

“Yes. He was never able to pass his proposal through the Coven and council. My mother was amongst his most vocal opponents.”

I lean back, wings propping me up in the weeds.

“How long has he been doing this?”

Baz tips his head back, eyes closed, face to the sun. He'd look calm, if his cheeks weren't blotchy and red. If I still had claws, I'd be digging them into the dirt.

“The king died when you and I were young, Simon. Without an heir, without family. Davy had successfully wormed his way into the inner circle long before that, of course, and despite their misgivings, the cowed council handed him power. Years of silence and reasonable rule had everyone convinced he'd given up on his bright idea...but the first reports of missing wizards—fringe sorcerers who live along the borders, most of them unregistered—began nearly three years ago. I've been trying to disrupt the Reform ever since, though this year has seen an unprecedented upturn in his _collections_. To call an assembly of wizards and _attack_ them in the royal palace? I could never have imagined he'd become so brazen.”

The Wraith. The black that oozed from his mouth, trapped in glass.

The Mage didn't even _try_ to hide what he was doing.

And then I think...y _ears. Baz, you've been fighting alone for so long._

What was I even _doing_ , three years ago? Providing the people of the valley with cheese and shit embroidery, bollocking Gareth about how much waxed paper he wastes?

I was doing nothing while Baz was running. _Fighting_.

“It doesn't sound defensive to me,” I say carefully. “Stealing magic like that, keeping it to himself. Where's he storing it? Is he planning to attack one of the other kingdoms with it?”

Baz has gone pale. “That's the natural conclusion, is it not? I've no idea of his plans. I severed myself from what remains of the Coven years ago. They do little to disrupt his policies these days. This current war, the endless bombing, conscription stretching to all corners of the country...the more desperate he becomes, the closer he creeps to enacting the Reform. And we simply don't know what it will do. People can handle small bursts of magic, the usual amount wizards use in spells and potions...but think back to yesterday, Simon. I shared one spell with you, and what happened?”

Fucking off-the-rails poetry, that's what happened. Daylight bardery. Offhand alliteration. And then there was this morning—bloody blatant internal rhyming!

It'd be a literary bloodbath. A well-read cataclysm, a scholarly purge.

Or maybe everyone would get really into classical theatre for a bit until it wore off, and we all woke up in wheelbarrows.

(It's probably not worth the risk.)

“Calcifer said the magic you gave me was strong. Maybe it'd be alright if he's only stealing weak, watery magic, like the Wraith's.”

Baz frowns. “It would be catastrophic, Simon. _Unstable_. Calcifer was correct in saying you were fortunate—there are many non-magickal people who would _not_ have survived that spell.” He bites his lip. “Though I am beginning to wonder about that. About you.” I swallow. “Are you entirely sure you're non-magickal?”

I shake my head violently, then nod because I'm confused, my tail untangling to join the frantic swaying. “I'm not magic. The Wraith just hit me with a knobhead of a _**clabber**_ , and even that's coming apart—disappearing scales, the claws?”

_I'm not magic. I'm not._

_I've spent my whole adult life making fucking cheese and sewing disaster goats onto bags._

But I think about how the Mage looked at me in the palace.

( _Winged soldiers_ _—i_ _magine!)_

I think about my arm in Baz's bath water _—_ my hand on his chest, _pushing_.

_(Heat. Power. Magic?)_

On the bakery's balcony, so sure.

_(We've been here before.)_

And all that rhyming has to come to something, right?

I watch a tiny bird land atop an outcrop of stone, one eye on the sky, puffing its chest.

_(No.)_

_(I'm not magic.)_

That's me—the bird, a small part of the whole. I breathe. _Focus on Baz._

“The black veins...when the Mage tricked Lamb, they appeared on him, too. Is that what happens when your magic goes away? Is that part of this reform thing?”

He's got his head against his knees, hands folded over his neck. I rub his back, his voice muffled when he eventually speaks.

“It is what happens when magic is drained.”

But.

That means...

I thought I'd already asked the big, considerate question. But maybe _this_ is what I need to be curious about, before anything else.

“Baz...what's through the star door?”

And even now, after everything, I know he won't tell me.

His head lifts from his knees and he looks at me, grey eyes red and aching. He stares for a moment then stands, stretching his spine. The day around us is perfect—one of the best I've ever seen. He takes in the ruins of his past life, and looks down on me where I kneel.

“When his negotiations with the wizarding Coven failed, the Mage retaliated. Some of his more vocal opponents vanished, whilst others died in their sleep. As for my mother—chief architect of the Mage's misery, ever the one thwarting his efforts with the king's council—for her, it would end in flames.”

I taste sulphur in my throat and try not to gag. (I know if I do, I'll stain the grass black.)

“Our house was set afire one night. I doubt he had a hand in it personally—an underling would have lit the match. And perhaps the intention was only ever to frighten her...my mother forced my father from the house and magicked me down from the balcony.” He blinks rapidly, touching his necklace again. “The last of her magic. I was five. She didn't try to jump.” He looks at me once, then turns away. I stand and follow him through the rubble, trying to keep up. “She had drawn up plans for the star door—her solution, should he ever attempt to enact his Reform—and it is my duty to see to it, these years later. To tend to the mess he's made.”

“What mess? Baz, you need to tell me—”

“What we do has consequences, Simon,” he says loudly, cutting over me. “The decisions we make trail a wake.”

_Questions, they echo._

Why can't he boil it down to three words, like Shepard says? Like Ebb did? I thought three words were too much earlier, but now I'd take them. I'd take anything except more bloody metaphors I can't decipher, and more questions he'll never answer.

He steps over the ruins of a wall and turns back for me, though with a flap of my wings and a convenient current I'm able to vault over easily enough. (Did he see that? No, I don't think so.) (Last thing I need is him accusing me of magic again.)

Baz leads me around the back of the ruins to a small stream, twisting until it runs into the lake. On the other side of the bank there's a small building with a waterwheel and a chimney.

“Baz. I'm sorry about your mum.” He's careful not to look at me. I reach inside my shirt to find my own necklace, and hold it up for him to see. “Trails and echoes. She's still here.”

He attempts an eye roll but gives up halfway. His hand comes up to squeeze my shoulder and I lean into it, providing the strength he needs. _I'm the anchor._

“I'm aware of what the world thinks of me. That I'm a scoundrel, ever on the run, afraid of staying in one place. Well it's true, Simon. I am afraid.” _Three words._ “Afraid that if he arrests me, if he finds me and takes my magic, I won't be able to stop what he's doing. I spend my nights casting, _thinking_ , hoping for a way forwards...and until that path presents itself, I must persevere.”

 _Casting, thinking, hoping_.

“Stop _what?_ ” My throat's getting hot. I haven't tasted real heat since yesterday, but I can feel the makings of it now, threatening to unwind. _Not here, please. The grass is so pretty._ “Persevere with what, Baz?”

I know about the fire. The burning, the portrait, the running. Why is he keeping this final answer from me?

How could it possibly make things worse, if I knew?

We're walking towards the small building behind the ruins. It's not burnt like the rest of the house—it's small and squat, built from white stone with a red tile roof. Ivy creeps up one side, a low fence snaking around a square field.

“The fake names you gave...the rumours about heart-eating...”

He smirks. “Yes—let the Mage think Natasha Pitch's son has become a hopeless philanderer. All the more reason for him to overlook me. Daz Pendragon, Chaz Watford, Jaz Lavande—cowards, disappointing correspondents, lowly traders of minor mischiefs and nothing-magic. They'll be low on his list of interests.”

_Daz, Chaz, Jaz. Coward, disappointing, lowly._

Everything's in threes.

_And when the Mage finally shows an interest in them and sends out his summons...alas, their shops are closed, the wizards long gone!_

It's clever. It's worked for this long.

He pushes open a wooden gate and waits for me to pass through ahead of him. What I thought was a shed or an outhouse is actually more like a cottage, or maybe a large workshop. I try the front door, not really expecting much, and find that it's open.

Inside it's a suspended moment in time, trapped like one of the Mage's portraits. Farming tools lie scattered on a bench, grey with dust, papers furled and yellow beneath them. Dirt an inch thick covers the windows outside, but in here, they're clean. I walk around the room, appreciating each crack in the wall, the old pair of shoes sticking out from under a three-legged stool.

“This was my father's space,” Baz says, leaning against the workbench. “He'd come out here to work and tend to the goats.”

“Your family had _goats_?” I exclaim. (I wouldn't admit it to Gareth or anything, but I do miss the goats.)

“Yes, we kept several.” He frowns. “I don't know what happened to them after the fire. I imagine someone came from one of the towns...or perhaps my aunt employed them in her caravan of knaves.” He blows lint off a pair of garden shears. “I thought this make might a nice place for you, Simon. I come here to think sometimes, after seeing to the star door. Enjoy the quiet, the outside...you could bring your goats to the field and live here. There's room for a bed, and there's already plumbing...I can set up a door to take you to the farm, and at night, you could return. _Be_ here. Safe.”

He trails off, possibly because the look on my face says it all—how I'm already imagining it, living here with the goats. Maybe Penny could come, too—we could put up a partition—and there's definitely room out the back for a barn. (Here there's nothing but space, and the goats would be chuffed with all that grass.) I pull open the door and breathe in fresh, promising air.

Yeah, I could see a life out here. By the lake, under the sun.

(And isn't that the perfect sky to fly in?)

I turn to him and I can't stop myself from grinning. “You'd really let me live here? You'd do that?”

My smile must be contagious, because he's grinning back at me, bright and easy for the first time since breakfast.

I want him to always look at me like this.

I always want him to be happy.

“Of course. It's hardly used—as you can surmise, it hasn't been touched since my father moved away. It would take some work, but I could look up a few architectural spells...you would be most comfortable, I'm sure.”

“And you?” I ask, wondering if there's space for a double bed in here, or if we'd have to sleep very close together. (I wouldn't mind.) He's spindly but I'd make do, and we won't need all those blankets he stuffs his bed with—my wings can cover us, like they did last night. (And then there's the whole _I'm a furnace_ thing, in winter.) “You could put a door to the castle next to the farm door—then Calcifer won't get bored, talking to himself. Shepard would have something to do, too. I bet he'd be a great goat therapist. He's got a soothing voice.”

I'm getting ahead of myself, so wrapped up in the fantasy that I don't notice the blankness until it's too late. I go to him, leaning in the doorway, and stroke his face with the back of my good hand.

“Baz. What is it?” _Come back._

I've been thinking about that. What happens to his face sometimes. He seems to think it's unimportant, going through the star door and leaving bits of himself behind, but I don't know.

I think he's losing more than he realises.

“There will be no door to the castle, Snow.”

Wait. What?

“But how will I find you?”

He walks past me into the field, hopping the low fence and starting off up the hill. I scramble after him, my wings not interested in flapping me over this time, while my tail makes a pest of itself, getting stuck between the slats. Eventually I catch up, halfway back to the moon door.

“This better not be more of that self-sacrificial nonsense from the palace,” I wheeze, grabbing his elbow. “Do you really think I want to live a merry life of goats out here, without you?” ( _Me, without you._ ) “Fuck that for a laugh. _I'm not_ _going anywhere_. Accept that. I'm going to help you, and I'm going to help Summer with her curse, and Calcifer...”

“There's nothing you can do for Calcifer.” He won't look at me. “There's nothing you can do to help.” He hesitates again, looking up and down at my wings. “I've told you about my mother, Simon. What do you know about _your_ parentage? We can't be sure there's no magic in you. I won't _risk_ it. Not again. Not after yesterday. I won't...” He's getting upset, and I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him still. The wind's picking up now, his hair in his face, catching on his lips. “There's no way through this. He'll hurt you, and I won't forgive myself for it.”

“How do you know that? We haven't even tried.” I gesture at the spectacle around us. The cottage, the stream, the lake, the ruins. “For this, Baz. Let's sort this out so we can both get back to _this._ ”

“I can't risk it.”

“Well, _I_ can. Stop _,_ Baz. Stop thinking about what hasn't happened yet. Would your mum hide away in a house by the lake, or would she have tried?”

It's bold, bringing her up like this.

But I reckon she must've been pretty bold, too.

When I told him about Ebb, he said something that stuck with me— _She was your mother, Snow. You had someone._

 _Yeah, and I have_ you _now, don't I?_

_And I'm not letting go._

My recklessness is working. (Fucking too right. I don't think he realises how stubborn I am—things could get ugly.) Life comes back to his face slowly and then his eyes are on mine, at last. He stops trying to fight me off and leans into me, foreheads touching like on the rooftop. (This time, I won't be so stupid as to let him go without a kiss.)

“Simon,” he whispers. “I hardly know who I am sometimes.”

“I know,” I whisper back. “But I know who you are.”

Three words. _You've shown me._

“I trust you,” he says, like he did last night. “I really do.”

Three words.

“I'm right here,” I say back.

And I don't get every answer I'm looking for, but I do find something sweeter.

His lips brush mine and I lean into it, letting the feel of his hands on my shoulders shut out everything else.

Three words. Can I condense this into so little?

_Here's the magic._

_Here's the magic that can't be trapped._

  
  


* * *

  
  


We pass through the door together, my hand wrapped around his, steeling myself for a sarcastic remark from the fireplace. _Look! Beguiled! Lightly salted!_

_Do your worst, you antagonistic torch. I've walked in ruins today.  
_

Baz is enduring the mess in his mind. The panic—whatever it is that pushes him to run—has subsided, easing away in the sunshine. (Maybe I'm really good at kissing. Knocked the thoughts right out of his head.) (Maybe not.) We left the worry out there for the day to dissect.

Three words. _Somebody else's problem._

Calcifer surprises me by saying nothing at all. I don't think he even notices our hands clasped together—he eyes Baz dolefully from the grate, flames a muddy brown instead of the usual fierce orange. My eyes track to the stone floor, where a crumpled piece of paper lies trapped by Baz's heel.

“Look,” I say, bending down to retrieve it. “Someone shoved a note under the cloud door.”

 _Our_ door. The castle door.

I feel an uncomfortable tightening in my throat. (Fear, not fire.)

_Somebody found the castle._

Baz frowns, snatching the paper from between my fingers. I peer over his arm to see more taunting capitals from the...well, from the capital.

  
  


" **TO THE WIZARD BATLIONS PITCH**  
REGISTRATION NUMBER 04161

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE REGISTRY  
ON BEHALF OF HIS GRACE, THE MAGE.

FROM NOW UNTIL THE FAR FUTURE  
THE ABOVE NAMED AND THEIR RESIDENCE LOCATED AT:

large, inappropriately decadent mansion,  
[?] hillside/sand dune/anonymous glen  
/field/other miscellaneous locations

HAS BEEN PLACED UNDER IMMEDIATE SURVEILLANCE.

THE ABOVE NAMED IS REQUIRED TO ATTEND  
AN INFORMAL DISCUSSION WITH HIS GRACE,  
CONCERNING AN INCIDENT OF ARSON,  
TO BE HELD EXTERIOR OF THE RESIDENCE  
AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE OPPORTUNITY.”

  
  


“Under surveillance?” I say, running over to the wall where the lead-framed windows sit, far up and high from reach. “The Mage...he's _here_?” (Also, BATLIONS? They aren't even _trying_ to spell it correctly.)

Three words. _He found us._

_They found the castle._

I'm furious, skin slick with sweat and heat as fire gathers within me, achingly red. It's not like before, when I set fire to the tablecloth—it's closer to yesterday, when the fire moved through me like it knew its purpose, like I was merely the vessel. Like flying and never wanting to land. Lying in a field, kissing, pretending we were something other than cursed...

The door closes behind us, the arrow shifting to settle on the cloud.

What's been roiling in me all day _doesn't_ close.

It shifts. It simmers. It _stirs._

“Typical,” Baz mutters, balling up the note and tossing it into the silent fireplace. “They still insist upon sending me letters, even after yesterday. The Post Office is truly irredeemable. Are you coping, my cursed carbuncle?”

Some life licks back into Calcifer as Baz kneels before him, feeding sticks and kindling into his open mouth. _“Better now you're here, you cavernous rift.”_ (Fucking rude, honestly.) _“I've checked on the doors. Leaf, sun and rain are locked, though there's someone knocking at all three. I don't think we should answer, do you?”_

“No,” he says softly, “I do not.”

“ _Star and moon are accounted for.”_

“Very good. Where are Shepard and Summer?”

“ _The apprentice went upstairs to shutter the windows. The dog's sleeping under the table, siege be damned.”_

There's a knock on the castle's door, then another. I bite down the hysterical urge to shout _who's there?_

_"They came in planes, Basil. I would have moved us, but..."_

"No," Baz whispers, shaking his head. "You were right to stay. No more running."

Baz turns to me, reaching for his wand, looking at my wings with concern. I'm standing beneath dying light, thinking about a burning house and a burning palace. He gives me the day's final smile.

 _There's the magic,_ I think.

When the third knock comes it's unsteady, a heartbeat out of rhythm.

_There's the echo.  
_

I return Baz's smile, fangs hanging over my lip, fire rising inside.

Five words. (Sorry, Shepard.) Five words from the ruins.

_This will end in flames._


	9. That's my boy

_Ebb stands beside me at the door, fingers wrapped around the handle._

_“Don't open it a minute earlier than you have to, lad. Them lot out there are unforgiving―they'll tear you to shreds fer a shred of Wensleydale.”_

_“We don't sell Wensleydale.”_

_“Less of your lip. You know what I mean.”_

_“Yeah, I know what you mean.”_

_“Doors are fer opening, Simon. They take you places and they let things in. Be sure to have a gander through the window before you turn that handle―you'd rather know what you're facing than be surprised by the Raleigh sisters on a rainy day.”_

_I nod solemnly. I always listen to Ebb's advice. She's full of it―it drips off her like the tears she’s always crying, and it hasn't steered me wrong so far._

_“Open the door, lad. Let the madness in.”_

_“And what if some of our madness gets out?” I ask, fighting with the key._

_“All the better,” she says, peering through the window at the queue of impatient customers. “Lightens the load a bit, doesn't it?”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You have to open it, Baz. That's what doors are _for_.”

Shepard's having a meltdown at the kitchen table. The unknown individual at the door continues to knock, tapping out a stubborn tune with fist on wood.

My breaths are shallow, rippling between my ribs. Baz is watching me closely from where he kneels next to Calcifer, wand twisting in his grip. He wants to spell my wings off―I can see it in his face. He thinks that what's out there is going to hurt me, suck the magic right out of my lungs. He might be right, but…the way I’m feeling, I’ll fight fang and claw to keep it. (Fang and nail?)

If we're going to survive what's on the other side of the door, I suspect I'll need all of me. As if in agreement, my tail rubs along the edges of my wings, outlining ruby.

“Do not open the door, Shepard.”

“It's _rude_ , Baz. We should at least offer them―”

_“If you say the words “a cup of tea”, apprentice, I will incinerate your frying pan and all other inanimate objects you hold dear in this life, up to and including your pencils.”_

“You wouldn't!”

“This ends in flames, at best,” I mutter, feeling like I might combust.

_“Exactly!”_ Calcifer crows, torching his logs. _“See, Simon and I are on the same page.”_

Baz soothes Calcifer with a handful of twigs. He's still looking at me, but I turn to peer up at the windows.

“I would like to know how they found the castle.”

It has to be the earring. It was the only thing out of place, after we dropped the ancient vampire off at his seaside retreat. Calcifer said it didn't contain any curses, but if he only checked it for the Wraith’s signature wanker-standard magic…

…maybe somebody _else_ cursed it, and Calcifer didn’t realise.

_What if―_

“Are these shuttered? All of the upstairs windows are secured, Baz. Nice job tidying your room, by the way! Clearing a path to the emergency exit was a great idea.”

Baz scowls. “Now’s hardly the time for a critique of my cleaning.”

Shepard smiles. “Let me know if you need any tips!”

More scowling. (I swear he’s going to get stuck like that, one of these days.)

Humming to himself, Shepard drags two chairs from the table, placing them next to me and stacking one on top of the other. He can't seriously be thinking about climbing that death trap? I hold him back and flap once with my wings, instead.

Nothing should happen. I realise that. I _know_ I'm not magic.

But just when I think they won't, my feet surge up off the stones and I'm pushing myself along the wall to reach the window. I get a hand over the sill and look down.

Three words to describe how Baz is looking at me? _As I suspected._

I lift the latch, ignoring the fact that I'm flying again (sort of), getting a glimpse of green-clothed men and what might be cannons, arranged around the castle. I almost fall but my wings flutter, holding me in place while my tail reaches through the window to close the shutters. I land with a thump.

When I turn, everyone in the kitchen is staring at me.

_“How's that magickal hangover treating you?”_ Calcifer crackles, crawling over a fresh stump of oak. (Baz is absolutely spoiling him. He can't seem to cope with an upset fireplace―he keeps pushing wood into the grate whenever Calcifer yawns.) _“Anyone else would be back to their usual, boring, non-magickal state of affairs by now.”_

I _did_ fly, didn't I? Without magic.

_Or maybe Baz is right, and the magic's in me._

Shepard's looking at me like I'm a plateful of Penny's homemade shepherd's pie. (And by that I mean like I'm the best thing in existence.) (Trust me. It's _good_.) (It doesn't contain actual shepherd, though.) “How was it?” he asks, reaching into pockets for pencils and notebooks that aren’t there.

“I've always been able to do that,” I lie. “Casual bit of wall-flying. It's part of the _**circus**_ _..._ I didn't want to bring it up and give you a heart attack.”

“Come on, Simon,” he says, grinning. “You don’t have to hide from me. You know you’re the most interesting person in the room, right?"

Baz marches over, spinning me around to examine my back. (He's jealous because I’m more interesting than him. I'm sure that's what this is.) “You're a terrible liar.” Well, I suppose Haz Jenkins _would_ know all about bad liars. “We must hide these immediately. He can't see what you are.”

What I am? How has that changed from what I was five minutes ago?

I really don't think an innocent flap of wings is worth all this upset. He pushes his wand between my shoulder blades but I wriggle away, slapping it out of his hand. (He looks at me like I've grievously insulted his appearance.) (I would _never._ Have I mentioned how lovely he's looking today?)

“We might need them,” I say seriously.

“For what?” Baz sneers. “Knocking over priceless antiques and scratching up the wallpaper?”

“Don’t be an arse. There's no point trying to hide me―he already saw my wings in the palace. Tail, too.” I bite into my next words and find them bitter. “He was interested.” My tongue feels fuzzy, too thick for my mouth. (It _is_ a bit swollen, where I chewed it earlier.) “He wanted me to drink his dodgy tea.”

If Baz has any substantial thoughts about the Mage’s desire to recruit me into his magickal reform experiment, he doesn't let them show. Instead, he bends gracefully and retrieves his wand, sliding it up his sleeve.

_Are we having a moment?_

_I'm not pissed off at him, but maybe he's pissed off at me?_

_Just a couple of miserable sheep, bleating at each other on the hillside..._

He leans in and plants a kiss on my temple, nose sliding along my cheek. (He's probably not _that_ pissed off, then.)

“You're not safe unless I can see you. Don’t be a hero, Simon.”

“I would _never_ ,” I say, aghast. “I’ve told you before, Baz―I’m not destined for great things. You keep dragging me into scrapes, and I fight off storylines, left, right and centre.”

He frowns at me, touching his thumb to the mole under my eye. “If you say so.”

“Yeah, I do.” I rest my face against his, curls covering his eyes. I can feel his lashes against mine for a moment, then there's all too much space between us.

_Come back._

_Come back and never leave._

The fire pops and sizzles. I lean to look at where Calcifer lurks, sticking out his tongue. _“Revolting. Can't you two take the sentiment upstairs? It’s distasteful.”_

“No, we cannot.” Baz strides over to the kitchen, glancing back once at the shuttered windows. “Although I'm sorely tempted to know how you'd handle this situation by yourself. Would you spit coal at the Mage’s men until they had to go home for a change of clothes? How terrifying.”

_“I would manage just fine, Basil. I’ve scorched many a nameless lackey in my day.”_

“Oh, come off it, you reprobate. You’ve the natural authority of an oil lamp. An _unlit_ oil lamp.”

_“You’ve been spending far too much time with our resident dragon. The lip you’re cultivating, Basil.”_

“Funny. I rather thought _he_ was gathering his impure mouth from _you_.”

I want to go to him.

I want to say that it's going to be alright. That even if the flames come, they won’t be for him. (For us.)

But the knocks come again, harder this time, and I don't know how true it is.

“Anyone for tea?”

_“Again with the tea, apprentice. Can we not deal with the nightmare on our doorstep first, and think about refreshments afterwards?”_

Baz sighs as the knocks intensify. I watch as another scrap of white comes sliding under the door, and it’s a race for who gets it first. Baz snatches it from between my fingers and holds it out of reach, so he can read. (Prat. He doesn't have _that_ much of a height advantage.) (I mean, I could knee him in the bollocks and call it even, but I'm not sure how it'd benefit me in the long run.) He huffs and lets the paper flutter into my open palm, already stomping his way back to Calcifer to voice his frustrations. (I hear such eloquent phrases as _may Merlin turn in his_ _grave_ and _damn the Post Office and its infernal meddling_.)

  
  


“ **TO THE WIZARD BALINOST PITCH**  
REGISTRATION NUMBER 04161

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE REGISTRY  
IN THE NAME OF HIS GRACE, THE MAGE.

THE ABOVE NAMED, HAVING FAILED TO MEET  
THE GENEROUS TERMS OF THE PREVIOUS NOTICE,  
IS HEREBY CONSIDERED SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE INTERROGATION,  
INTERIOR OF THE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED RESIDENCE.

IF THE ABOVE NAMED DOES NOT OPEN  
THE EXTERIOR DOORS POST-HASTE,  
FORCE WILL BE DULY EMPLOYED.”

  
  


BALINOST. You can’t make this shit up.

It sounds like there are two people out there now, making enough of a din for three. (Seriously. Are they trying to strike up a sing-a-long with all this jolly percussion?)

“No tea, Shepard. I shan’t waste the leaves on these louts. What do you say, Simon? Should we open the door?”

I feel strange. (Well, stranger than usual. Which is hard to gauge these days, honestly.) My sense of smell seems heightened, though I haven’t grown any new dragony-bits up my nose, that I know of. Everyone in the room has their own scent―Calcifer’s as charred as you’d expect, and Shepard is like the outside. Summer, still dozing under the table, smells damp, but that might be because she’s a dog.

Baz smells like smoke. (And cedar. I’m sure he drowned himself in cologne this morning.)

He can sense it, I think. The new magic in me. The bit of him that's wizard knows there's more madness in the room than his own. I'm not sure if it was the Wraith's curse, or the curse's weakening, or the spell thrown forth from fire that changed me―but it _is_ a change. I'm not going to keep fighting it.

Not when it might be what gets us through.

“Open the door,” I growl. “Greet our guests.”

_We don't poison our tea in this house._

_We get answers in other_ _ways._

* * *

“ _Never offer an unfamiliar shepherd a cup of tea, Simon. They're like to set up shop fer the rest of the week, and we'll never be rid of 'em.”_

“ _Isn't it polite to offer tea?”_

“ _Oh, yeah. And you shouldn't ever refuse a cup twice, yer hear? You never know when it's going to be your last. All the same, be a bit more careful when the world's inside your house, alright? One cup and they'll be back for another. Especially with how I make it.”_

“ _Why do you bother with the shepherds if they're such trouble?”_

_Ebb sighs, crossing her feet. She's sitting at the desk, counting the day's takings, putting a pile aside for the monthly rates. “They know their numbers, Simon. They're better with the shop business than I am. I'm only really in this fer the herd.”_

“ _So...you don't have to like everyone you work with?”_

“ _No. Although gettin' along is in everyone's best wishes.” She runs a hand through her knotty, yellow hair and yawns. I see all of her teeth and the back of her throat. “Be mindful who you make tea for, that's all. And only take from those you trust. Understand?”_

“ _Yeah, Ebb. I understand.”_

“ _You're a good lad. Now get out there and muck the kids out, alright? No more faffing about.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


Shepard opens the castle's door with ceremony and relief, ushering in four men decked in green.

They look ridiculous. Like well-meaning, ill-fated heroes from a fairy tale. All of them are sporting hideous moustaches. Is it illegal to shave, if you're one of the Mage's men? Does the palace provide a template and guidelines for how it should sit above your lip?

“Hi! I'm Shepard, from the royal city of Oma―”

“Silence, wretch! Step aside, in the name of the Mage!”

Shepard, too shocked and appalled to protest, scrambles up the steps and gathers Summer into his arms. (She's very much awake and barking up a storm, snapping and wriggling to be returned to her kingdom of the floor, so she can maul an ankle or two.) (I wonder if she recognises any of these shaking knees from the palace?)

“Control your animal,” one of the anonymous soldiers snaps, hand moving to his sword. (Ah. She definitely took a tender bite out of _you_ , then.)

The sea of green parts and a stocky man strides through the open door, feather in his hat all too familiar, though there's an odd gait to his step that isn't.

It's definitely _him_. Same cold blue eyes, same pencil-thin monstrosity crawling all over his face, same chin-dimple, same thick brown waves. It's the Mage. I hiss as much in Baz's direction, and he dips his head. And then...it _isn't_ the Mage.

(I mean, it _is_. It definitely is. But...)

Something's different.

(...something's _wrong_.)

He walks a circle around the kitchen, eyes catching on my wings, smirk plastered on his face. He gives Shepard a long look, then smiles broadly at Summer and rolls up his sleeve to show imprints, where sharp teeth had their say. She wags her tail, obscenely pleased with herself.

“I remember you, dear mongrel.” He glances at the fireplace. Baz is leaning against it, somehow _not_ catching his arse on fire, arms folded over his chest. They both curl their lips as they regard each other. (Is that a wizard thing? Do they take an exam in sneering?) “And you. You look just like your mother.”

If the remark rocks Baz, he's careful not to react. He keeps himself between the Mage and Calcifer, and miraculously, the fire manages not to say something immediately insulting.

“Shabby,” the Mage says, glancing at the dishes in the kitchen, the day's debris on the table. “Wizard Pitch, what would you say is the shabbiest thing in here?”

_Wrong_ , I think. _Wrong._ Why does he sound like the Wraith?

_(Yes, this is a shabby affair indeed.)_

Baz rolls his eyes, gesturing at the Mage's men taking up valuable space in his cluttered kitchen. “There's your shabbiness. Can't your associates wait outside? It's cramped enough in here without this rabble. Surely a powerful man such as yourself doesn't require an escort?”

The Mage watches Baz carefully. Does he know we know about the poisoned tea? Does he assume, given the general beast-like state of me, that I'm too stupid to figure out what he did to Lamb?

“Perhaps _your_ friends can depart, also,” he says evenly.

And I swear, for a second, his blue eyes flash black.

Baz looks over at where Shepard stands, still wrestling with a furious Summer. He swallows, and I can guess at his thoughts: _Clear the room, lessen the casualties._

“Shepard, I'll open the moon door. Will you take Summer and wait for us outside? I don't expect we'll be long.” He pauses to glare openly at the Mage. “I've hardly three words in my head for this contemptible man."

“I'd hate to leave you, Baz.” Shepard means it. Summer's doing her best to earn her freedom, but he clamps down hard, arms shaking against her golden fur. “Are you sure?”

“I'd hate to see you hurt, Shepard.”

“Now, now,” the Mage says slowly, as though addressing a child. “Nobody's going to be hurt.”

Shepard adjusts his glasses and turns to me, one arm pinning the toiling dog to his side. (She's giving a good account of herself. The Mage's men daren't come near her, claws thrashing like tiny daggers.)

“Looks like a classic case of magickal over-indulgence,” Shepard whispers, leaning in close. He gives a shrug in the Mage's direction. “I've never seen it before in person, but the signs are there―twitches, changeable accent, foul mood. He's been casting all day without rest―it's reckless. Be careful, Simon.” He smiles nervously. “Look after Baz.”

I run my tongue over my fangs. “I will.”

There's minor turmoil as apprentice and dog duel each other on the way to the door, conveniently stumbling into two of the Mage's men and sending them toppling to the stones, crying about their...well, their _stones_. The dial spins and I don't miss the Mage's expression―the way he lights up hungrily as he witnesses the castle springing to life. Then the door's ajar on a shadowy dirt road, far away from fields and cannons. In the distance, I hear the _mlehhh!_ of a goat.

_The farm._ My heart soars. Penny will be a _bit_ put out when a yappy dog and bespectacled apprentice show up on her doorstep, with scratches a mile wide along his arms. But once he mentions we've met she'll let them in, right? She'll look after them. At least until we can find them later.

_If_ we can find them. ( _When_. Now’s the time for whens, not ifs.)

They pass through into the valley, door slamming shut behind them. The dial ticks back to the cloud―the Mage’s men track it, something like awe in their eyes. It doesn't look like any of them have magic―swords hang from their belts, but no wands. The Mage must prefer to surround himself with ordinary people.

I haven’t really thought about Baz as a wizard. I mean, I _have_. I know he is one, and I’ve seen him do loads of magic since I invaded his castle. (I think about him all the time, really. Even when he’s right next to me.) But I don’t know any other wizards intimately (shut up) to compare him to, so maybe I haven’t been thinking about his power in the way I should have.

I think Baz must be a really powerful wizard.

He’s got a moving castle loaded with enchantments. (And alright, there’s a demon in the fireplace doing his share of the labour―but Calcifer’s magic must come from Baz, too.) The doors to anywhere, the thing he keeps locked behind the star door…magic he shared to help me fly…

Baz is far more than the Wraith, even when the latter comes dressed in his frilly Sunday best. I think the Mage can see that, as he knocks over books and sneers up at shuttered windows.

_But he doesn’t know_ _what Baz is,_ who _he is._

_Not like I do._

“Your turn,” I rasp. “Send your mates outside.”

“And you'll be escorting them, I take it? I would have words with the wizard alone.”

“He's staying,” Baz says.

The Mage ceases his pacing, standing at attention in the middle of the room, giving us a blank look I’ve come to know well since my life tipped upside down. It’s the same look Baz got earlier in the valley, the same look that steals across him all too often.

There’s _definitely_ something wrong with the Mage.

_Davy, do you need a lie down?_

For a moment I think he's going to argue. Then he smirks and raises a hand to his contingent.

“Very well. Fewer bodies, eh? Men―outside.”

The castle is filled with a rousing chorus of _yes, sir!_ as the green-frocked idiots go marching two-by-two through the yawning cloud door. They’re met with cheers from what sounds like a good ten or twenty others. The Mage must have brought an entire _troop_ on his little siege outing. (Was he that afraid of us?) (I doubt he ever meant for this meeting to be friendly.)

“Now then,” he says, words slurring slightly―I watch him take a faltering step before correcting himself. “Wizard Pitch, might we not have a chat about your brief foray into arson? It was quite treasonous, you know.” He grins, sliding into a seat at the table and crossing one ankle over the other. “You’d make your mother proud―not to mention that anarchist aunt of yours. Tell me, what _was_ your mother's name? It's been so long.”

I look at his ankles. (He's wearing lime-green socks with red foxes on them. Ridiculous.) Baz crosses his legs sometimes, but he usually does it at the knee. Not that I spend a lot of time looking at Baz's legs. (Alright, that's a lie.)

“I do not want her name in your mouth,” Baz says, still propped up against the fireplace. Calcifer is crouched under his logs, wild eyes scrunched shut. It's sweet that Baz is so protective of him, but if you ask me, the Mage deserves a good demonic tongue-lashing. _Basilton, unleash the gobby demon._

“I hardly remember her name.” He lifts his hat off, patting idly at his hair, balancing the brim on the back of his chair. He tips his head back haughtily, looking down his nose at us, and I can't shake the image of Lamb doing exactly the same thing. “There were so many of them in the end, it seemed worthless to waste time memorising names. I’ve always been better with faces.”

_A long line of faces, stretching around a room._

Frills, disdain, questionable manners. The Mage is acting a _lot_ like the Wraith.

I think back to what happened in the Weeping Tower―how the Mage was then. He was officious, I thought―a leader, with medals pinned proudly to his chest. There’s something sleazy about him now, eyelids drooping, mouth slack and words lagging. Even the way he’s sitting reminds me of the Wraith. If he pulled out a fancy pair of cufflinks and started making outrageous demands for Baz’s heart, I wouldn't be surprised.

“Are you here seeking compensation for damages to your palace?” Baz drawls, inspecting his nails. “Apologies for any mess my dragon caused to your property. He was rather taken aback by your flippant theft of magic, you see.”

He says it calmly, and it’s nice to see the Mage falter, face wide with surprise. “Did you receive my gift?” he asks, after wresting back control of his Lamb-face. “I’d hate to see you in a mismatched pair. How devastating for you.”

My stomach lurches. _The earring._

“ _You_ cursed it,” I say, shuffling out from my place under the windows. It’s like the Mage looks at me properly for the first time in a while, taking in my entire shape once again. There’s a strange, unpleasant slant to the way he watches me―like he’s hungry, curious. It's the way Lamb would look when he was talking about Chaz. “You cursed the earring and tracked down the castle.”

The Mage tips his head back again to laugh. Honestly, it’s uncanny―I expect the Wraith’s soft, taunting voice to fill the room at any moment. If Davy suddenly developed a head full of auburn hair and his skin lost its ruddiness, he’d be a dead ringer. (An undead ringer?)

“I wouldn’t be caught dead casting something as tawdry as a _curse_.” Another loud, hysterical laugh. His eyes flash black again, and Baz catches it this time―he raises a hand to halt my approach. “I _spelled_ it, my boy. One of my favourites from school― _ **follow your heart**_. So gracious of our mutual friend to provide a final service to his country, was it not? A Pitch will ignore a postman, but never a dark creature.” The Mage’s mouth turns up in a cruel smile. “Given that you _are_ one. How many hearts has the son of Pitch consumed today?”

“Zero,” Baz says tersely, fingers around his necklace.

“Ah, yes, the teapot,” The Mage smirks. “I remember seeing hers every day. Like mother, like son. It’s how I knew he was yours,” he continues, tipping his head in my direction. “And that Charles Watford was a mere creation. Though I was surprised to see _your_ apprentice in the Wraith of the Waste’s company.” He clearly means to say more, his mirth barely contained behind taunting teeth―and he’s disappointed when he can’t conjure a reaction from Baz. “Were you pleased with what remained of Lamb, after I was done? He talked about his _darling_ _Chaz_ all the way down the tower steps.”

Baz rolls his eyes. I can’t believe Calcifer’s kept his trap shut for this long. Surely it’s killing him? (It’s killing _me._ I’m genuinely concerned.)

“I assure you, the word _darling_ does not apply. Lamb and I had not spoken for years until he limped in here, looking like the ghost of a ghost.”

“And might I enquire what the severing event was, in your friendship...?” the Mage asks, feigning ignorance.

“He informed me of his intentions to sign your peace treaty. I made my disapproval and misgivings perfectly clear, but he refused to listen. I had no choice but to banish him.”

I frown. _A peace treaty?_ In the palace, Lamb mentioned something about that. _As per the treaty, we have limited our night time sojourns to towns and cities away from the capital._ What was the Wraith getting out of a bargain with the Mage?

Black lungs and a startlingly quick aging process. That's about it, as far as I can tell.

“Not interested in signing one yourself, eh?” The Mage has got an elbow on the table, winding his wrist in slow circles. All I can think about is a baggy cream suit and shrivelled hands, two beady eyes harassing the fireplace. _How? Why is he acting like the Wraith?_ “I admit he had his uses, collecting names of unregistered wizards, spying on the sad remains of House Pitch. I could help you, now he's gone. I can provide access to all sorts of power.”

It's good that the Mage is more focused on Baz than he is on me. The fire is stinging my throat―I feel sweat drip down the side of my face. How does Calcifer stand it, feeling like an inferno?

“The Wraith's power has been in decline for a century. I suspect he'd do anything asked of him, if he believed he would one day get his hands on more. I am not so desperate.”

I think about Lamb, holding out his hands and demanding a heart. _So he could eat it_. _So he could have Baz's magic for himself._

Magic. Power. Is that all that matters?

I imagine the Wraith is harmless after the magickal mauling he received, set adrift in his armchair, but the Mage most definitely isn't. He's sitting here, happy as can be, clogging up our kitchen. I need to get him _out._

“Seeing as you're opposed to power, why don't we come to another agreement? Settle the small matter of treason recently committed upon my property.”

“I will make no agreements with you. Please remove yourself from _my_ property.”

“It's not your property,” I grumble. “The palace is the city's. The kingdom's. You only have it because the king died.”

The Mage's head turns like an owl's. “I _am_ the kingdom.” He squints, following the sway of my tail. I'm five paces away, and I reckon if I moved quickly enough, I could have it wrapped around his neck within seconds. I don't dare look at Baz to see if he'd approve. (I bet you a wheel of semi-aged Bûcheron he's frowning.) “Tell me boy, were you born with those wings? You are _most_ interesting.”

I wait to see if he's about to follow his _interesting_ up with a _shabby_ , but no. I still don't know what the fuck's going on with that. Maybe he thinks Baz is more likely to negotiate if he behaves like a familiar face? _Oh alright, I killed your mum, but don't I remind you of someone? A certain well-dressed apparition of the night...?_

“I was _**crated up and shipped out to sea.**_ ”

Fuck me. Why isn't the verbal aspect of my curse wearing off? I'd trade my scales for a chance to speak freely. All the poetry rattling about my skull, for the one true butter claw. (My tail twitches menacingly. I better not get _too_ traitorous with my thoughts.)

“A curse,” the Mage says slowly. He looks me over again, besotted with my wings. Then he turns back to Baz, who seems caught in indecision―to maintain his manners (they _are_ at the table) or rip this pompous twat a fucking new one. “Another proposal for you, Pitch. I can take this deformed apprentice off your hands―he's more trouble than he's worth, I'm sure you'll agree―and relieve him of his curse. We'll drop the matter of the fire, and I'll ensure your registration is approved going forth. What do you say?”

He smiles, teeth arranged like bayonets.

_Fuck_.

_Did he...?_

If I didn't know better, I'd think the Mage had eaten Lamb (person, not sheep) and subsumed his features as his own...but I _know_ the Wraith is alive and well in Saltnook. (Probably knee-deep in a crossword, living out his golden years―centuries?―in an armchair by the fire.)

Lamb isn't dead. The Mage isn't himself.

And I...

I am on _fire_.

(Seriously, I'm afraid it's going to start leaking out of my ears.)

For a long moment Baz hesitates, hands steepled in front of him. The ridiculous part of me that clings to the curse worries he'd actually do it. _Gosh, you know what, I've been hoping somebody would come along and take this nuisance dragon off my hands, and here you are! Never mind that I've rolled around in a field with him and nibbled his scones._

Then he looks at me, and half the smile he gave me earlier revives on his lips. (I don't know that I've wanted to kiss him this badly before.) (Definitely _not_ the time for that.)

“No,” he says curtly, pushing away from the table. “I'm afraid I cannot part with my apprentice, and I cannot accept your offer. We'll simply have to go our separate ways. I intend to take my castle across the border.”

The Mage is taken aback, floundering. “Our separate...? _No_ , I demand you cooperate. _In the name of the Mage.”_

_“We don't place much value on that name in these parts.”_

“Who said that?” He looks around the kitchen, eyes lingering on the frying pan. (Well, in a place like this, you have to wonder.) (That pan has certainly seen its share of the narrative.)

_“Nobody,”_ comes a licking reply. _“Nothing to see here, old boy.”_

Baz clears his throat and delivers a kick to the fireplace. “Gargoyles,” he mutters, raising a finger ceiling-wards. “Had them for years. It's a morbid infestation―can't get the louses to leave.”

The Mage casts his gaze up, then shrugs the thought away. He turns to me again, heels clicking smartly on the stones, just as Lamb's had done all those days ago in the cheese shop. (He's wearing boots instead of frilly shoes, but the effect is the same.) (Much like then, I'm tempted to march to the door and sarcastically bow my way out of the situation.)

“Boy, what's your name?”

I'm not like Baz. I can't think up a thousand extravagant lies on the spot. “I'm...Limon?” _Fuck_.

Over the Mage's shoulder I see Baz execute a stunning eye roll. Really, it's something special―I'll have to tell Shepard about it, get a commemorative footnote added to his book.

“Limon?” (He's not buying it. But that's my story and I'm sticking to it.) “Where are you from?”

“Valley,” I mumble, keeping things vague. Probably can't fuck things up any more than I have already. ( _Limon,_ really?) “Farm.”

“Which valley?”

I swallow. “Lancs.”

He obviously doesn't get out of the capital much―my city's far from massive, but it does a fair amount of trade with other towns. It shouldn't take him this long to place a location...something eventually clicks into place, and I watch him become a bit less Lamb-like.

“Ah, yes. Lancs valley―I spent time there, when I was your age. Sowed a few seeds. And there was a successful mission some years ago, regarding a retired hedge sorcerer.”

I look at Baz, wishing he had some sort of mind-reading spell that would cut through the Mage's bullshit.

“A war mission?”

“In a way,” he says, and leaves it at that.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“ _Don't go out there.”_

“ _I won't be long, lad. Stay up here in yer blankets and wait, alright? Don't open the door to no one.”_

“ _What's all that light?”_

“ _Torches. It's dark, coming up the hill at this time.”_

“ _What do they want?”_

“ _How would I know, yer great lump?”_

“ _Well, ask them.”_

“ _Be careful now, Simon. Little good comes of unwanted questions.”_

“ _I only want a fair answer, Ebb. You're always harking on about fair questions.”_

_“Be sure you're ready for those answers when you go around demanding 'em, lad._ _Questions echo, Simon. They echo through time._ _”_

“ _Only if they don't get answered.”_

“ _Clever, aren't you? Get yer head down, now. I'll put some tea on when I'm done seeing what's ill.”_

“ _Ebb? Don't be long.”_

“ _Shut your eyes, now. Yer mouth, too. Nothing to worry about, lad. I'll be home in a min.”_

“ _Alright.”_

“ _Alright.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


A whirl of smoke comes rushing through me. I don't want The Mage to notice―better he thinks me a mere winged curiosity.

I trust Baz with my magic. I do not trust the Mage.

“What do you say, boy? Accompany me to the capital and we'll see to your wings.”

_See to my wings._ I imagine what he might mean by that―me, attached to a warplane, spraying fire over a city I've never seen. Soldiers in green flapping alongside me, feathered and dark.

“ _Don't do it, kid.”_

The Mage scowls up at the ceiling, though he doesn't seem convinced. “Conveniently chatty today, these gargoyles. Like an unwanted angel on your shoulder.”

“ _I'm no angel, pal. A secondary plot device, at best.”_

The Mage looks angry enough to go tearing about the kitchen―Baz and I take a step towards him at the same time. Baz's face is a mixture of hate and relief―he didn't _really_ think I'd choose the Mage, did he? (For one, I can't kiss the Mage.) (Also, he might be evil.) Then the Mage is reaching inside a pouch attached to his belt, producing a small bottle of black liquid. He grins at me, pouring it down his throat in one long swig.

“Baz,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “don't get close to him.” I watch the Mage's face distort as he becomes a bit less human and a bit more nothing. “He's got the Wraith's magic―he drank it. That's why he's acting so strangely.”

We both stare as he holds his head back, tongue extended to catch the last drops of what once was Lamb.

I'm not sure the Mage is capable of proper speech anymore. (Good, because so far he's been talking a load of shite.) He drops the bottle on the floor and crushes it underfoot, not blinking.

“I would never fight for you,” I say through my fangs.

_I would never choose you._

I'm opening my mouth to finally, finally let the fire out, when two things happen.

The first: The Mage draws his wand―a squat, inelegant thing―and points it at Baz.

The second: Baz, instead of returning the favour, lifts a hand and attempts to reason with him.

My head's filled with fire.

Without his wand, there's no fight in Baz―he wants to _talk_. But we'll never talk our way out of this. The Mage came for blood and magic.

_This will end..._

_Flames._

_It ends in flames._

“No time,” I rasp, choking on myself. “No time for reason.”

I leap, slipping on shards of shattered glass, barrelling into the Mage―hard enough to knock him against the table, wand skittering off across the floor. Calcifer's burning bright-white in the grate, brighter than I've ever seen, and I feel strength in my arms I've not known before.

_Is this me or is this magic?_

The castle is brimming with what's been stolen. And I understand, I understand now.

“You didn't steal it for the kingdom,” I shout above the roar in my head. “You don't want to reform anything. You stole it for yourself.” _Introducing the Mage's brand new magickal donation initiative! Give up everything you are to make one short, prickly dictator very, very happy!_

The Mage looks terrible, like his face is sliding off his face. His poise, charisma, control―all overridden by Lamb's magic and whoever else he's been drinking, charging himself for a fight. He'd have to be strong to take down Baz―and I think he is. I think he's been drinking his way through his supply, in preparation for this. A fucked-up wizarding cocktail.

Natasha Pitch must have been powerful, to have him scared this way. To have made all this necessary.

“You send soldiers― _children!―_ to the front lines. You bomb towns and cities and you don't care, do you? You _don't care._ And at the end of it, you'll flatten what's left with power that isn't yours.”

I know he can hear me. I know he's listening.

_You had ideas, once. You had a vision for magic that wasn't entirely rotten._

_What brought you to this?_

“Today's the day,” he growls brokenly. “This is the hour. Pitch magic is old. I can take it. I can take her power. I just have to kill _him_ , first.”

At last, Baz draws his wand―I expect him to throw out a shielding spell, or something that might knock the Mage out of step, but instead he goes straight for fire. Like he did in the palace. Like he did, reliving that night in the ruins.

_**“** **Fight fire with fire!”** _

It roars from the end of his wand, met with a wall of water from Davy's open hand, catching on his lapels and collar. The Mage yells, batting at himself, dropping to the floor and rolling. He scrabbles for his wand and lifts it in triumph.

Baz hisses and tightens his fingers around my wrist, dragging me towards the door. “Simon, leave. _Now_.”

“No,” I say, gripping his arms. (If I had claws, I'd be hurting him.) “I won't leave you here.”

The Mage has found his feet. _**“Let's take a trip down memory lane,”** _ he declares, advancing on Baz, who drops to his knees.

“What are you doing to him?” I snarl, trying to force myself between them. The Mage pushes me back with a muttered spell. Darkness leaks from him in onerous waves.

_**“** **If my own memory serves, was there not another incident of arson in our shared pasts? A fire for a different wizard Pitch?”** _

Baz has got his head in his hands, completely exposed. The Mage isn't casting with his wand―he's got one hand reaching for Baz, his eyes completely black. There's no light left in him...he's consumed by magic, and none of it his own. Baz can't fight it―he's being pushed deep inside his own head, battling whatever memories the spell is drudging up. His ivory wand clatters on the stones, and I swoop down to claim it, hiding it up my sleeve.

A noise from the door―the castle's dial is spinning out of control, so fast it blurs into an indefinable daze.

“Stop...stop _talking._..” Baz groans, unable to lift his head.

_**“** **If my memory is correct, she did not save herself. She had no want to live.”** _

Baz howls, curled over himself, fingers tearing at his hair. The morning's lilac leaks out of it, until it's back to his natural black.

How could I have thought that fire would be enough?

He's too much―there's too much magic― _there's nothing we can do._

Regardless, I heave myself onwards, desperate to get between them again. Davy's other hand comes up and his magic pins me in place, wings and tail thrashing hopelessly. (Come on, all that interfering and _now's_ the one time you behave yourself?)

_**“** **Commit this moment to memory,”**_ the Mage says darkly, black eyes on mine. _**“Then put him out of your mind.”** _

Calcifer flares red, _screaming_ in his grate―and then I'm being thrown backwards, across the kitchen and down the steps, fire spitting from my throat as I go. My wings cushion the fall, and I pull myself up immediately, scrambling for the bottom step―

And the Mage is there, casting on me, forcing me back towards the door. How long would I last against twenty soldiers? How many could I take down before they were on me with shining swords?

_**“** **Keep your distance!”**_ he shouts, face lit triumphantly as he swivels to point his wand at Baz. _**“And you, cast your mind back!”** _

_No_ , I think, watching as Baz collapses completely. _Get out of his head. It's a mess in there―we haven't had chance to tidy._

The dial stops spinning, and I've enough of my bearings to recognise Calcifer's voice as he burns blue, almost incinerating the unlucky gargoyles hanging overhead.

_“Moon door!”_

It bursts open. I teeter on the brink for what feels like my whole life. (The _longest_ time.)

I'm looking at Baz. He's down, the Mage over him again, magic thick and viscous in the air.

_I'm here,_ I think. _I'm the magic._

Three more words. The only ones that matter, what I should have said this morning.

_I―_

Then the Mage's hand drops, the spell breaks, and I fall backwards through the moon door.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_My eyes open on a familiar sight._

_On the castle balcony, lit with starlight, the moon a disc above me. Calcifer must have moved us―we’re in the valley Baz and I walked through this morning. I can see the lake and the long grass and in the distance, goats huddled in a fenced-off field._

_It's where I want to be. A place I could rest in._

_I wonder why Baz was thinking about it. Why would he send me here, and how could the castle move so quickly? (Let's face it, Calcifer's less than motivated at the best of times.)_

_That’s when I notice that I’m not alone._

_There’s a boy―a young boy―doing his best to reach the railing, though he’s far too short, even on his tip-toes. He manages to touch his forehead against the wood, toes scuffing floorboards. A woman stands behind him, face faded under the inky sky―there’s no mistaking the long black hair or silver teapot, stark against her black dress._

_Baz’s mum. Natasha Pitch. We're not on the castle's balcony―this is their house.  
_

_And the boy must be…_

_“Mum, can I touch one? Can I keep it in a jar?”_

_The woman bends, picking up the boy and holding him against her. His feet and arms dangle, and he raises one chubby hand to point at the star-stained sky._

“ _Please? Can I touch one?”_

_“No, little puff―the stars aren’t for us.”_

_He’s disappointed, but it melts away as a star shoots across space before our eyes, a bright streak of white. The little boy―Baz―is mesmerised, hands locked around the railing, eyes wide._

_How old is he? He can’t be more than five. I slide up onto my knees and reach out to them, though they don’t seem to hear me. Everything turns foggy as though the memory’s retreating.  
_

_“My grandmother told me stories about them. If you catch a falling star, it's a gift from Osiris―you must swallow it and keep it safe. It will keep your heart safe, in turn. Light a match in your heart, blow on the tinder, and swallow it whole.”_

_“Why do you keep your heart safe?”_

_“Oh, there are many reasons. It's your magic, love. Remember that.”_

_“It might taste funny. Do stars die, mum?”_

_“Of course, love. Everything dies.”_

_“Even you?”_

_“Even me. But the shooting star―did you see its trail? We leave trails in this life. We’re not quite gone, even years and years later.”_

_“I want to be a shooting star, mum. Make trails in the sky.”_

_“Alright, little puff. You can be all that you wish, if you pay attention in school. Now come inside and keep off the balcony. Your father’s convinced you’ll fall off one day.”_

_“I won’t fall. I’ll fly.”_

_She smiles, small fingers enclosed in a bigger hand._

_“That's my boy.”_

_The memory slips sideways and I go with it, tumbling off the balcony and through a mix of mind and star-shine, the trail of a shooting star reflecting in the boy’s eyes as he stares up and out with a mind full of questions._

_I wonder, are any of them fair?_

* * *

_The world spins and I spin with it._

_I’m outside, face-down in grass. I lift my head and see the lake again―I’m on my knees on a knoll, looking down at the reflection of the moon on water. A sudden flash―stars, streaking overhead. There are so many of them, racing down to where I wait, breathing in the scent of flowers I traipsed through earlier._

_There’s a boy walking into the lake. I watch him kick off his shoes and roll up his trouser legs, hands held gracefully out in front of him. I run after him, wings a menace against the wind, calling out a warning._

_“No, wait! Be careful―the stars are falling!”_

_Don’t drown, I think._

_Come back to land._

_The boy pauses, looking around for my voice, though he can’t see me. I run to him, tail lashing, reaching out as he reaches for a star._

_It’s Baz. Older than he was on the balcony, but still years younger than we are now―is he fourteen, fifteen? Maybe younger. I can’t tell. It’s dark out here―I only get brief snatches of his face as the stars fall, splashing and hissing into the lake around us._

_Baz shakes off my ghost and reaches up as one shoots towards us―he’s saying something, whispering spells, and then he catches it. He catches the star._

_I’m closer, edging around the lake, splashing in the shallows._

_“Baz, please―Baz!”_

_He looks around again. He looks right at me._

_He’s crying._

_They're not the delicate tears from earlier, in the ruins―face hidden, skin patchy and red. This Baz has been crying for a long time, and he’s raw with it―broken and hopeless. He looks at me again, squinting into the dark, then shakes his head. The star trapped in his hands sparks brilliant green―for a moment I picture the castle's fireplace―and then he lifts it to his bitten lips, blows until the insides burn red, and swallows it whole._

_“Baz,” I plead, wading into the water, though my legs don’t feel wet. “Baz, Calcifer―please, can you hear me?”_

_Baz swallows the star, shoulders shaking as he cries at the sky, then turns back to land. He walks right past me as he goes to retrieve his shoes and socks, face ravaged and chest glowing a faint, celestial blue._

_“Baz, please!”_

_He looks out at the lake, and I swear he hears me._

_I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s left to say._

_This Baz is alone. This Baz is afraid._

_This boy has been running for a long time._

_I don’t want him to be alone anymore. I never want him to be this alone._

_“Find me!” I shout, as loud as I can, my voice an echo from somewhere distant. “Baz, in the future―you have to find me, alright? I’ll help you. I’ll help Calcifer. Please―find me!”_

_He can hear me. I see him in the dark looking around, the glow in his chest fading. I push through the water, though it feels too thick now, the lake trapping me in place. I reach out to him, my tail splashing uselessly, wings flapping though they can’t lift me out._

_“Baz! Look everywhere for me. On the hill, in the valley―I’ll be there. I promise. I’ll be right there.”_

_He stares through where I stand, and then the world rips._

_For a moment I see him clearly._

_And he sees me._

_I reach out. I’m crying now, too._

_“Baz, it’s me―Simon. Please, you have to find me.” A haze, stealing over us again. “I’ll help you. I promise.” Try again. The three words you haven't said. “I lo―”_

_His eyes narrow, mouth opening._

_But the world’s upside down again, and I’m falling away from him._

* * *

_Things settle and I try to make sense of what I see. What is the Mage doing to him in the castle? Everything's disjointed and warped._

_It’s me. I’m looking at myself curled in a blanket on the floor, all scales and fangs. Baz is sitting at the table, watching me sleep. He's dressed for a night of suffering―a shirt with undone buttons, hair silky and recently washed._

_We’re in the castle, fire low, late at night. I watch myself stand, argue, struggle to pull off a black cloak. Then Baz is walking to the door, tracing long fingers around an earring. I realise where we are―in the kitchen, right before he went through the star door that night. The day I walked in on him in the bath. I can hear myself asking him to stay. (Good grief, do I always sound this whiny?) Begging him, pleading with him, like I did just now at the lake._

_“Fine. But where are―”_

_“I'll come back.”_

_He goes through the open star door and I stumble after him, calling out. (This Baz can’t hear me.) (The other Simon can't, either―which is just as well, because he likely wouldn't appreciate me calling him a sappy git.)_

_I feel a pull, painful and hot―it’s like when fire gathers in my throat, though this pain doesn’t feel as though it comes to anything.  
_

_I try to move back, but there’s nothing there―only darkness. Baz is gone, devoured by the black, and I call his name like it might be the way back.  
_

_The star door. I know what’s there. I can feel it, tugging at me like a drain._

_It’s insidious. A humdrum, a hole._

_It’s the complete absence of anything, and I know what Baz meant when he said the decisions we make trail a wake. He’s tending to the mess, to a rift torn when magic is taken unwillingly._

_Behind the star door is a hole._

_And this hole..._

_...it wants to grow._

_I run my fingers over my neck, pulling at the chain, wrapping my fingers around the teapot's spout. The humdrum is dragging me deeper, but my wings thrash, wrenching me away from the depths._

_Wings beat until they find a rhythm._

_I wanted to fly again, and here it is―out of darkness, into light.  
  
_

* * *

My wings bring me back.

One moment I’m staring into dark, and the next my face is crushed against cold stone, the star door open on nothing behind me. It sucks at my ankles as I crawl up the steps, slithering across the kitchen towards Baz, like the serpent I was cursed to be.

Baz isn’t moving. He’s on his back with his legs under the table, eyes open. His irises are stained black. His hair’s a tangle and there’s blood on his cheek. The Mage is crouched over him, a glass vial clutched in one fist, though there’s no black liquid spilt inside it. Baz's necklace, whistling a cacophony around his neck, is yanked away―the chain snaps.

_“Is this where you're keeping it?”_ Davy seethes. The humdrum pulls at the castle, sucking life from his words. Books rise from their stacks and flap through the maw―they'll have to keep it satisfied, until we find a way to close it.

The Mage is examining the teapot, silencing its whistle with a crushing palm, tipping the spout into his empty vial. Nothing comes out. ( _No tea for you!)_

He doesn’t have Baz’s magic. Not yet.

_Good._ _It’s not yours._ _He’d never give it to you._

Calcifer is a dull heap of cinders in the fireplace, sheltering under a log.

_“Please, kid,”_ he croaks feebly, trying not to attract attention. _“Help him. You’ve got to help him.”_

“I will.”

The humdrum wants to feed on the Mage's magic―it picks at us, at the castle. More books fly through the hole, pages open on ancient spells. If I'm to make any use of the fire in me, it needs to be now.

Baz has been fighting alone. But he's not alone anymore. I said it to his past, and I'll say it to the future― _I'm right here._

“Get away from him.”

The Mage looks at me, his black eyes pinched, and drops the empty bottle. There are black veins creeping along his cheeks, and I see them all over Baz, too. Fingers, wrists, throat―magic, draining into the void.

“There's nothing left. _Where is his power_?”

He's contorted―a hundred different voices fighting to be heard. I wonder how many bottles of black he consumed on his way here...how many tricked wizards he drank. He was never willing to negotiate with Baz, with me. (This certainly is _not_ like any diplomatic discussion I've ever heard of.) (Fucking magickal intervention is what he needs, if anything.)

If he wants one final fight, he can have one.

I'm ready.

“Get away. Right now.” I'm advancing slowly, arms wide, tail up over one shoulder like the vicious bleeder it is. I've never properly fought someone before...I took a swing at Gareth once, when he ate the last scone without asking. I've traded punches with a few of the other farmhands, in the name of pride. I've been rough when handling the billy goats back into the barn, on rainy nights. But actual fighting, with fists and feet and fangs? No.

It's not like the Mage, ruler of the kingdom, is going to knock me over and beat seven colours of shit out of me. He's far too focused on chasing Baz's magic to pay me much mind. He bends to retrieve his bottle.

_It won't work_ , I want to say. _He keeps his magic in his heart._

_And his heart's not in his chest._

Falling through Baz's memories, witnessing his past...his mother's words echoed, and he took them to heart. (Literally.) (And then his heart went for a walk.) I get why he did it, even though it must have been hard.

I won't push the fire down this time.

I'll let it _sing_.

“Get back,” the Mage snarls, teeth sharp then blunt then gone then back again. He's a blurring mass of faces, old and young from days far gone. I don't think he knows he drank too much magic―his body can barely contain it. It's pushing out of him from all angles, spiralling around the room and disappearing through the door. I breathe it in as it billows past me.

The Mage's fingernails have turned black. His face is blank. Too much, too much magic lost―and with it, pieces of himself.

I spare Calcifer a glance. He's safe beneath his logs. _Stay there_ , I mouth, and he must be watching, because he bursts orange before burrowing into himself again.

I'm going to go off. And with this much fire coursing through me, I don't expect I can do much to temper it. All that I've been since the curse, and all that I was before that, without knowing.

_I'm the magic. I'm what's left._

_Castles move. People fly. I am a dragon._

I open my mouth and let the fire pour from me, igniting the table and catching the back of the Mage's coat―he pulls it off, screaming bloody murder, stamping out the flames. (He's not even remotely concerned for the furniture.) He advances on me, wand arm raised, shouting things in languages he doesn't know.

“Magic is a _right_. Magic is _ours_.”

And I wish he could see himself.

Is there any way back from this? Is there a path that doesn't end in flames for all of us?

He aims his wand and cries, the last decent spell left in him― _ **“Sink into oblivion!”**_

I duck in time, wings covering me, and the spell (curse?) goes sailing overhead, slamming into the castle wall. I hear shouts from the other side, and at first I think the spell has torn right through stone and obliterated the soldiers―but instead the star door cracks and moans, the two of us staring into nothing. (Nothing stares back.)

“Can't you see what you're doing?” I shout above the silence. “It's a _hole_. You're stealing magic and leaving this behind you!”

_Like a trail. Like an echo._

I don't think the Mage is in the mood for metaphors. _**“Sweep you off your feet,”**_ he says weakly, knocking me sideways into the wall. He marches over, wand still raised, and presses the point of it between my eyes. “It's _power._ It should not be coveted and hidden away! I can do great things, boy―things you'll never know.”

“This,” I say, swinging my hands behind me to the darkness, “this isn't power. It's the opposite of power. You need to put the magic back―all you've taken. You need to put it back before that―that _thing―_ gets out!”

It's trying to. Get out, I mean. _Grow_.

Baz's mum found a way to trap it and contain it. And Baz has been venturing into it for years, pouring his own magic inside, draining himself of all that he is. To keep it satisfied...to scrape through another day, and look elsewhere for an answer.

I'd have done the same, if I were Baz. Some holes do want to be filled, after all. (Not like _that_.) (This is no time to be sidetracked by innuendo.)

But some holes want to _grow._

“Enough of your nonsense,” the Mage wheezes, stepping back and glancing at where Baz lies, on his back with his eyes wide open. Not moving. Not blinking. “Years go by, and they all say the same. They saw holes through your ideas when they can't appreciate the possibilities. The true worth of magic.”

_Magic has no worth when there isn't any light._

Hungry and gnawing, the humdrum eats its way through the air around us.

I always thought of fear as a cold thing, but it's red hot. Davy can sense my fire building again, and there's hesitancy as he regards me now, wings spread and beating, fanning fast-depleting magic around the room.

There's a moment where it might all end differently. Where he spells me down to the stones and ransacks the castle in search of Baz's heart.

But then the part of me that's always been ready to cut through the bullshit wakes up and rejoins the fray. My tail, tired of talking, flicks out and wraps around the Mage's wand. It pulls free and I toss it aside, drawing Baz's wand and pointing it in his face. I'm not convinced the Mage needs a wand for casting―not with all that's bleeding out of him, like a morbid waterfall―but _I_ might.

I take a breath, a moment. (This will be memory.)

Then I let everything out, with all I have left of Baz.

_**“** **Stop hurting him!”** _

The Mage stumbles, heels catching on the steps. I stand over him, wand raised at the medals on his chest.

_**“No guts, no glory!”** _

The medals scatter, ribbons frittering away. He pushes himself up and comes for me, abandoning all pretence of courtesy, shoving me backwards towards the star door.

“Wretch!” he spits, hostile and unrecognisable. “The Pitches don't matter now! None of them. Only magic, boy! Give it to me. Give me your magic. _Don't make me take it._ ”

He's hassling me down the stairs, and we're both trapped in the humdrum's drag. I almost tip through the door, but my wings flap, holding me back. My tail jabs him in the side, and he lets go long enough for me to twist away, his fingers digging into the scales on my arm and ripping them off. They glitter, like parts of the past on their way into the black.

_"Shut your eyes, now,"_ he threatens. _"Yer mouth, too."_

_(...Ebb?_ _)_

_**“Stop hurting me!"**  
_

I say it as I bleed, as I suffer and worry.

I say it with Baz's wand against his stomach, and I say it without any idea of what might happen.

Along my arm and through my fingertips―I feel it come, what remains.

I go off again, this time like a bard of old, fire and smoke and lyric ravaging me like a particularly famished thesaurus.

_**"A heart meant for this,  
made of hope and free will,  
to your war brings an end  
with this missive instilled, in  
courage we stand, defiant of flames,  
  
hand in hand, this ends  
as the dark goes amiss,  
with a wizard's true name  
and not a curse, but a kiss."  
  
** _

  
  


Of course it rhymes. Of _course_ it fucking does. (That better not have been a bloody sonnet.) (A half-arsed _acrostic_? I think I'm going to be sick.)

All those bastard rhymes welling up in me for days, and they finally serve a purpose.

The Mage is furious (probably embarrassed, too―I know I am), wiping at his soot-soaked face with a sleeve. Is this what it's like, living in Lamb's head every day? Fuck _me_ , it's mortifying.

Davy stares as though he sees what I am and finds me damaged―not fit for purpose, after all. _I would like to renege on my purchase of one ill-mannered dragon-hybrid._ Then he staggers back, rocked belatedly by the blast. He blinks once, eyes empty. Black veins race across his face, his neck, his hands, and I look away. Scales are peeling off my arms, disintegrating as the nothing devours.

I don't see it when it happens.

He falls through the star door, too weak to outrun its pull, his hands reaching for me as a silver teapot goes skidding across the stones. He slips into darkness, and though I stretch for his fingers, my tail wrapped around a pillar, I can't reach him.

He falls from me. It's too late; I can't save him.

The humdrum hums, pleased with its prize. (A treasure, a _hoard_ of stolen magic.)

It whistles and sparks and flashes bright-white, like Calcifer did in the grate. Like a hundred shooting stars fracturing against the surface of a lake, long since lost to memory.

The Mage doesn't have wings to bring him back, like I did.

And some holes...they _do_ want to be filled.

The star door slams shut, darkness united with its missing piece.

The dial topples to the floor and shatters.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sound, like sirens going off in my head. Are there bells, somewhere far off? I feel like there might be bells. (Or it could be my heartbeat, grown frantic.)

I fall to my knees, clawing without claws. The air shakes, and I feel something tickling my cheeks―it's ash, all that's left of scales and books as they crumble, sticking in the air and coating my arms, my face, the backs of my hands. The castle's poetry dies around me.

_I didn't push him._

_I didn't...it wasn't..._

_It was bad poetry. That's all. Not..._

_(Not murder.)_

Baz hasn't moved. I reach out for his hands and drag myself alongside him. The scales drop from my face, and I feel a searing pain as my fangs retract into my gums, lips bloody and mouth sore. (It feels strange now, like there's too much empty space.)

My tail whips out and wraps around Baz's arm.

“There's no way you _weren't_ going to survive this, was there?”

It streches back to prod me in the nose. (Cheers. Love you too, mate.)

My damaged wings curl over us, dotted with holes, though the humdrum couldn't claim them completely. I'm the tattered aftermath of a dragon, now―a ruin. ( _A relic._ )

But I'm here. _I'm right here._

“Baz. Come on. Get up.” I hook my hands under his arms and pull him into my lap. “The Mage...Baz, I...”

_I didn't push him, but I would have. To save us. (I had to.)_

_I didn't mean it. (I wanted him to stop.)_

He doesn't wake. His eyes are glassy. (But at least they're grey instead of black.) I tie the snapped chain around his neck, holding the charm against his chest.

“Come on. _Please_.”

_“He's in a bad way, kid.”_

I look at the fire. Calcifer licks glumly through gaps in the grate, like the sorriest sort of prisoner. He's still dim―a deep, dark red to match my bloody mouth.

Outside, the Mage's men know something is wrong. Could they hear as their leader slipped through into nothing? The castle rocks―there's a loud bang, then one of the windows upstairs shatters.

“They're shooting at us. Cannons.” I struggle, breathing through my teeth, throwing my arms around Baz's waist and dragging him towards the door. He hardly weighs anything. (When this is over, I'm going to get on his case about daily bacon quotas.) “Calcifer, can you open the moon door? It doesn't matter where. Anywhere. Just...away.”

I prop Baz near the steps and limp back to the fireplace―the Mage must have taken a chunk out of me with that feet spell. My ears continue to ring like a knell. (Or a lament.)

_“I don't know if I have it in me. The dial's broken, the door's damaged.”_

I pull a piece of cedar from the pile and feed it through the grate.

“Ebb used to say that the best blaze brightest when things are at their worst. Are you or are you not an A-plus plus fire demon?”

He accepts the offering glumly. _“Who's this Ebb character? Sounds like a right sap.”_

I laugh, though it comes out strangled, tears tracking dark lines through the soot. _I wish she were here. She'd know what to do.  
_

“Please, Calcifer. I know you can work the doors, or the portals―whatever they bloody well are. I've seen you do it.”

_“Yes, but Baz was there. He guides the magic. I need to know what he wants.”_

I go to him. It's painful. (I'd do anything for a sneer or a smirk. _Please._ ) Kneeling, I pass a hand over his face to close his vacant eyes.

_He's not gone. This can't be over._

_I'll get you away from here, find a nice bath to soak you in._

Another blast rocks the castle―plaster falls from the ceiling, dusting soot with white.

“Calcifer, hurry! They'll bring it down around us.”

I stroke the hair out of Baz's face, bending down until my nose is against his cheek, like he did to me earlier. “Where do you want to go?” I whisper, smearing his skin with ash. “Where's safe?”

He's cold. There's no magic in him. (I think Calcifer and I are all that's left in the castle―the only thing keeping it together.) I slip my fingers inside his shirt and feel the hollow where his heart should be.

( _There you are, sweetheart. I was looking everywhere for you.)_

“You were,” I whisper against him. _You looked everywhere. Long years of searching._ “And you heard me. You found me, Baz. In the alleyway, on the balcony.”

He needs to be alright. He needs to hear what I have to say. (He needs to _know_.)

_I love you._

“Calcifer, can you send us to the valley?”

I can't see for the tears coming out of me. I hobble back to the fire and pick up the ash shovel.

_“Hey, what are you doing with that thing? Grant me a sliver of dignity, kid.”_

“You'll die in here. We need to get you out.” I hesitate, trying to gain control of my lower lip as it wobbles. “Fuck dignity.”

_“I'll die anyway, Simon. Might as well make it one for the books, with cannon fire and smashed gargoyles cursing me on their way down.”_

“Calcifer, don't be a git―we need you. _Baz_ needs you.”

The demon falls silent as a gargoyle topples on cue, destroying what remains of the smouldering table.

_“There's nothing more you can do for him, kid.”_

“I know what you are. I saw you at the lake.”

He watches me gloomily.

_“Took you long enough.”_

“I know, look―I never won any prizes for insight, alright? He needs you. _Now._ And you still want help with your own _**cheesecake**_ , right?”

_This is it. This is how we break it. Every curse the castle contained._

Except my own. (But I'm alright with that.)

I wait for a spark of green to subside. He follows it up with a wicked, fathomless grin.

_“I have to be the last through the door, you hear? Drag Basil out first, then back out with me on the shovel. Looks like your tail is in a helpful mood, so we'd best make use of it.”_

“What will happen when we leave the castle?”

_“I'm not sure, but it won't be good. The castle needs a heartbeat. It'll certainly give those green idiots outside something to panic about―how many of them will come rushing in, do you think, to save their gracious leader?”_

They won't find him.

_(I'm sorry.)_

I wipe warm blood from my mouth and feel the loss―Baz's lifetime of treasures, gone. Shepard's arsenal of notebooks and kitchen equipment, Summer's books, the overworked bath and its myriad potions.

All of it, gone.

There's no time to salvage anything. But then again, the only thing that matters is here, on the floor.

Shouts from outside and more cannon fire―something rips through the wall above our heads, burying itself in the staircase.

_“Come on, kid. If you're committed to the concept of escape, it's time.”_

I nod, reaching over the grate and scooping Calcifer into the shovel, gathering a few remaining scraps of wood for him to feed on. My leg feels ready to give way, but I stumble back to Baz, transferring the shovel to my twitching tail and hauling him down the steps.

Above us the damaged door looms, and the dial spins no more. Calcifer spits and crackles from his makeshift nest―it cracks open on a starry night.

More shouts come as the castle is completely besieged with fire. It's a barrage now―a _war._ A three-pronged hook appears through a smashed window, latching on the sill, and screams of triumph echo from outside. The very foundations of the castle feel like they're shaking, and I close my eyes to take it in, one last time.

Calcifer's almost gone. Where his flames burnt brightest I see a dark red coal, glowing hot.

“You were the heart of the whole operation,” I say. “Shepard told me. I just didn't realise what he meant.”

He smirks up at me, a red slit in a mountain of rubble. _“You always saw the spark in me, Simon. Thank you.”_

I wrap my arms around Baz's waist and pull us out through the open door, into night. The castle crashes around us, cheers turning to dismay as the Mage's men are beaten back, towers and turrets toppling.

_No flames_ , I think as we collapse onto wooden boards, heaving mouthfuls of cleaner air.

In the distance, a bell. In my head, smoke and echoes.

Baz is lifeless in my arms.

_It didn't end in flames, after all._

It ends here, in the nighttime. Fire dying, eyes closed.

_It ends without him._

My tail rests the shovel on the floor. I pull Baz against me, watching the castle's door close one last time.

_"Kid,"_ Calcifer says feebly. _"Now's no time to despair."_

A light catches my eye. Baz's chest, glowing a celestial blue.

_"Light a match, Simon. One last burst of fire. I know you can do it."_

I reach for the demon, starlight above us.

In the dark I find a star―his heart―and bring it to my lips.

I think about magic, last words and memory. _Not a curse, but a kiss._

I close my eyes and blow on the tinder.


	10. The heart's burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this far, and those who have left comments and kudos. :) It's meant the world to me. I hope that this final chapter can bring a bit of brightness to you in these difficult times. It's been a pleasure writing this fic and I truly hope you've enjoyed the journey. Thanks again. ❤︎

Night sky, wind and cold. The bells stop ringing, echoes dancing off rooftops. In a far street, footsteps falter like a heartbeat interrupted. We're back where we began—on the bakery's balcony, apart from the world.

This is where the final door brought us. Back to the start, to end where we met. The familiar feeling of the city settles over me, and in the silence, I suffer.

_Baz._

_He's gone._

_“Kid,”_ comes a quiet voice. _“No time. Put your whole heart into it, you hear me?”_

I dread what I must do.

_But I must._

Calcifer is quiet, a stone in my hand. What's left of him diminishes, growing cold and faint as I blow, dragon fire nurturing a dying flame. He doesn't have a single insult or opinion left in him—he flicks his tongue at me, flames shifting through the spectrum, then putters out.

A star, extinguished.

A demon, smothered.

_Let me be a dragon once more. One more flame, and then I'll let it go._ _I'll be less again. Cheese and goats and lumpy yoghurt._

The fire doesn't roar. It's a hum, almost an afterthought.

Inside Calcifer is Baz's heart—dim, shrivelled, cold. My fire warms it and the heart glows darkest red, skin on my palm blistering. My other hand fumbles with charred buttons, ripping open his shirt so that red can mix with celestial blue.

I press the heat in my hand against the cold of his skin.

_Come on._

_Come back._

_Come back to me._

_(This isn't where the road goes.)_

I hang over him, curls touching his nose, and try to summon the magic. There's no alternative plan, no world in which I can fail. It _has_ to work. I _have_ to do this. I think about the day I intruded on his bath, shoving my arm into the water, scales shedding for skin...what was it that I felt coursing through me?

_(You're burning me.)_

_Fire._ I pushed. I was a conduit, a vein. Magic moved along my arm and into the bath, and I gave it to him. All of it, to fight off the dark.

Magic swirls in me and I flatten the dying star against a dead man, and let it flow. Along my arm, through my fingertips—pushing into him, mind and hope and— _yes,_ at last—heart.

_A curse._

(All that I was.)

_A star._

(All that I am.)

_A memory._

(I'd give it to him.)

_A_ _heart_ _._

(I'd...)

I push, with everything I am and all I've become. The luminous heart moves through the blue, into Baz's chest. I open my eyes and see it pulsing—lines, knitting together, making a wizard whole again. Magic, papering over the cracks. He's cold in my arms and I grow numb, hurting and bruising because the city's empty and I can't hear his voice anymore. Calcifer's gone and my wings are in ruins and there's nothing left.

_Take it_ , I think. _It's yours. Take it back._ _Heartless man who never was heartless._

_You saw who I was and didn't run. Not from me._

_I saw who you were and I didn't turn my back._

A shiver, a thought: _What if my magic's not enough? I haven't learnt to use it properly. I missed every day of magic school._ _Nobody told me I was supposed to show up._

Do I need to go to a fancy school to cast properly? Can't I wing it, like everything else I've done so far? (My tail twitches, feeling unappreciated.) (Can't I _wing and tail it_ , then?)

I pull my hand back, looking at the dark depression that's no longer blue or red or anything. The star's glow fades, and the balcony casts back into the night's repressive murk. I tip my head back, eyes closed, refusing to accept what seems true.

That it wasn't enough. That _I_ was the curse. I told him to find me, and what for?

I open my eyes and the city returns to me, in pieces.

There's nothing. A dog barks, leaves rustle.

Quiet. No one and nothing.

_I wanted you to stop running. I didn't want you to stop._

No wizard. No Baz. No nothing.

Except...

Except this—

A flicker of eyelashes. A twitch of lips, ashy grey.

A spark of white, out of his mouth and away in the night air.

Shade returning to skin as wounds mend. Colour in his cheeks.

A hand, rising from the floorboards to twine with mine, tying us together.

“Baz,” I say, “Baz.” And I wait.

( _It's your line, now_.)

And finally, finally he comes back to me. Voice like sawdust. Limbs limp, eyes overcast. But it's _him_ , he's alive _—_ his mouth's open, and _—_

“Simon?”

I'm on him in a second, smothering him, most likely killing him again with my violent enthusiasm. ( _Don't you dare fucking die._ )

“You're going to suffocate me, you _terror._ ”

Oh. Sorry.

I don't rightly care if I'm fucking up his hair. (Seriously, the rhymes can stop now, yeah?) I touch along his brow, down his nose, and end up where I was this morning. Where I want to end up every day.

As usual, it's a terrible time for a kiss. I’m a mess, so is he—it’s nothing like the sweet ones we shared in the field. It’s half a mouthful of teeth and salt, because I’m crying and he's struggling to hold his head up. (I have to physically run out of water at some point, right? Dry up from the inside like an empty well.)

But when's ever been the right time? If I don’t kiss him now something else might happen, and then I’ll have missed my chance. The odds of things happening seem vast—we've got _tragic protagonists_ written all over us.

“Simon...” he sighs into my lips, and even though I’ve been dying to hear him speak, right now I don't want another word from him. (I'd rather he be lost for them.)

When we're nothing but breath he pulls away, hands either side of my face. He's sooty and shattered, and I bet I look like a sack of shit in comparison to how lovely he is right now, under starlight.

Baz starts at a sound—the squeak of a wheel, metal clanging on stone. There's no one in the square and streets below. Moon's high and windows are shuttered, at least in this part of town—no doubt there are still night owls out and about somewhere, on their way to a long-foretold rendezvous with a wheelbarrow.

“I'm sorry,” I say, bringing a hand to his chest. He looks down at where I'm touching him. I feel his heart beat through my fingertips as he folds his own hand over mine.

_I like it._ I like how it feels, under my thumb. Baz, under my hands.

“Calcifer,” he croaks. And that's all he need say.

“I had to.”

I think about the memory I fell through, Baz and his mum watching stars fall.

_Do stars die?_

_Of course, love. Everything dies._

“He knew what he was,” Baz whispers. “It was his curse, to be trapped in the fireplace. An agreement we made—he would live instead of sizzling out in the lake, and in return he would keep my heart safe.”

_I kept my word in the end_. _Calcifer's free._

_And stars do die._

It takes Baz a long time to sit up. I hold his shoulders as he shifts against the railing, head resting on metal. His eyes close and I watch the movement of his neck, the rise and fall of his chest as it settles and the glow fades to nothing. (Only skin.) (And magic. But he's always been that.)

I don't know how long we've been here. The sun's not stirring yet, so it can't have been too many hours. He breathes deeply, lets it out through his nose. Then he opens his eyes and says, “I feel strange.” A grimy hand, tugging at the tear in his shirt. “Heavy...slow. It feels...”

“Well, a heart's a heavy burden,” I tell him, touching my lips to his brow.

And instead of something sweet he says, “Snow. Have you been overindulging in poetry again?”

“You don't know the fucking half of it, mate.”

_I killed the ruler of the kingdom with my amateur rhyming. How's that for bad literature?_

I weaken against him. I can't think about that now. About the Mage—his hands reaching for me, a flash of bright before the star door slammed shut. His face, shifting through the wizards he'd robbed. The fire, castle walls crumbling...

_Calcifer. Calcifer's gone._

My tail winds around Baz's leg, battered wings poking through the gaps in the railing, ash shovel empty behind us. A stab of dread, inside. _They'll come after us. Where could we go that's safe? What could I say that would make them understand?_

_I didn't mean it._

_If you'd seen...the council, the kingdom—if you knew what he was doing..._

_It wasn't the Mage, in the end. (It was everyone he'd hurt.)_

Baz's fingers move through my hair, gently parting knots. Slowly, slowly, I unravel.

Ebb's face, her voice: _Breathe, yer silly sod._ So I do. And I try to put things in order—what comes first?

“We need to get down from the balcony.”

After that? _The farm. Shepard and Summer._ (And Penny's outrage, no doubt.)

He creaks and groans, looking like he could sleep for the next fifty years and still not be satisfied. I pull bits of soot and dust off him, and after I've found my feet, hold out my hands to pull him up. We stand side by side at the railing, elbows touching, looking out at the city at night.

“I like it better like this,” I croak, voice raspy after flames. “No people. No cannons.”

Baz begins rifling through his pockets and checking his sleeves—I know what he's after, and though I slide his wand out from my own sleeve, I refuse to give it to him. He pats his throat and grimaces at me.

“No. No spells. You're not strong enough.”

He pouts but doesn't argue, hanging his head over the edge.

_No more magic._

First, sleep. (And a bath. Baz's nose wrinkles and I reckon I must smell like a goat trough.) He looks over my back, taking in the state of my wings and tail, resolutely alive and twitching. His attention catches on my face, and his eyebrows lift.

“Your scales...”

“They're gone." I bare my bloodied gums. "Fangs, as well. Down my arm—look.” I roll up my sleeve. Then, because we both nearly died and I'm feeling daring, I lift my shirt, moonlight shining on the flat, boring, freckled unseemliness that is me. “They fell off in the castle. Turned to ash. The thing...the thing behind the star door. It was eating magic.”

Another thing my brain isn't ready to think about. Fortunately, Baz is more perceptive than I am—he's running a hand over my face, thumb brushing down a clear cheek. (Well, clear but for the soot.)

“You're you,” he murmurs, touching where scales used to cling. “You always were. Now, more so.”

And I can't believe, for a moment, that any part of this person could be mine.

I consider our options for getting down from the balcony before the sun comes up, and the valley's population chances upon the horror in their midst. (Me, not Baz.) (All things considered, he came out of tonight looking unfairly handsome, in a dishevelled way.)

Baz can't cast. At least...I don't want him to try until he's rested and fed, and the weight in his chest has lessened. And I definitely can't fly with my wings in this state. (Will his magic be different now he has a heart?) (Is he going to start dishing out insults like Calcifer, or was that part of Baz always his own?)

I'm sure I could break into the bakery and lead us down that way...but Penny's probably plenty pissed off with how her day turned out. Is Shepard making notes on different cheeses arranged on the shelves? Has he made it out to the barn and begun a thorough analysis of goat behaviour? Has Summer gone rampaging about the yard, taking bites out of bags of compost? No, I don't need to add burglary to her list of concerns. (Because let's face it, if I break into this place, I _am_ going to secure a cake or two for my troubles.)

“Don't overthink it,” Baz says dryly. “Toss yourself over the edge—your wings will offer some level of resistance, at least—and I'll float down elegantly after you. If you pay attention, you might catch me and save further injury.”

I elbow him in the ribs, then feel bad when he doesn't retaliate.

“Sorry.”

“You are peril itself.”

“ _Sorry._ ” (Won't lie, it's nice to be insulted.) (Calcifer, are you in there?)

“Get us off this blasted balcony alive, Snow, and all will be forgiven.”

I'm not sure about that. Especially when he realises what I've got in mind. I told Penny that my drainpipe-shimmying days were over...but here we are, with no other way down. (No _sensible_ way, at least.) (Penny would rather I climb down a drainpipe than ransack her workplace, right?)

_Don't overthink it,_ Baz said, and I'm taking his advice to heart. (Ha!) I swing a leg over the railing and grip the thick metal pipe attached to the building, squeezing tight with both hands as my feet press against brick. (This would be much easier with claws.) My tail helps, wrapping around the pipe beneath me, providing extra grip as I slowly walk my way down.

“Come on, then. Or is a bit of pipe action beneath you?”

I look up and catch Baz's eye roll as he observes my descent, swinging over the railing to follow.

"Everything about this is beneath me."

I'm about halfway down—it's only two storeys, so not too bad—when I look up again, and of course Baz's arse is there _._ I don't know what I expected...there were only so many ways this could have gone. (Two ways. My arse in his face, or his in mine.) I concentrate on the pipe and let out a relieved sigh when my feet find stone. He makes his way slowly, carefully—I suppose it's harder without a tail or a wand—and then he's on the ground too, breathing hard, looking at his hands.

“ _Shimmy down the drainpipe,_ he says, as though it's the natural conclusion to this entire sorry saga.” He regards me suspiciously. “How much of the local crime rate is your doing, Snow?"

I shrug. His hands are red and blistering. I bring each one to my mouth, lips gentle on his skin. “Kiss it better?” I say with my best _please don't kill me_ look, hoping it's enough. I show him where my palm blistered, pushing his heart back into his chest. “We match.”

He scowls—in a loving way—and trails a hand into darkness. “Which way, o' delinquent one? Without magic, you'll have to get us up the hill intact using only your wits.” (We're doomed.) (I _do_ have a terrible sense of direction.)

I stand and stare at him. He's so alive and he's here and he's sneering at me. (I love it.)

“Snow? It's unsettling when you look at me like I'm a strip of bacon.”

“Why's that? I love bacon.” It's not quite what I _want_ to say, but surely Baz can see through such a flimsy premise?

“I have witnessed, from close proximity and in grave detail, what it is you do to bacon. It does not thrill me.”

Maybe not, then.

I shrug again, looking around to find my bearings. An old man hobbles across the square. (He doesn't see us—too busy talking to his dog.) I take Baz's arm and pull him around a corner into an alleyway. We'll have to stay away from the main streets to make it out unnoticed.

I wonder if the Mage's men have already raised the alarm...are there messengers stationed at the capital's gates, ready to depart at a moment's notice and convey news to every corner of the kingdom? _The four horsemen of the Post Office: Undelivered Letters, Lost Parcels, Unwanted Newspaper Subscriptions and Never-ending Queues._

It hardly matters now. What comes after is for another Simon to worry about.

First **—** the farm. The others.

_It's only right. Only right that it ends where it began._

“Don't get us lost,” Baz mutters, glaring at his hands.

But I'd be fine with getting lost, if it's with him.

  
  


* * *

  
  


First time I came to the city alone, I didn't have a clue where I was going.

Penny had written instructions and drawn a map to the bakery from the bus stop, but with all her loops and squiggles, I soon got tangled up in my own feet and ended up down Fishmonger Street, being chased by a man with a squid.

I got there eventually. I always do. Penny was in a right huff on the doorstep when I showed up, crushing a croissant in her fist. (She let me eat the remains, after I explained where I went wrong.)

I didn't get lost in the city after that. Sometimes I'd wander and not want to be found, but that's not the same. I didn't _really_ get lost again until the day of the military parade. (And I still say that was more Baz's fault than mine.)

I'd be lost, is what I'm saying. I wouldn't mind. If we were lost out here together and never quite found our way back to the world...I'd be alright. At least for a bit. If we're not part of things, nothing can go wrong. It'll happen around us, like so much dust in the air.

We don't see anyone in the alleyways. The city's asleep, licking its wounds after waves of conscription robbed its youth.

_Will they come home now that the Mage is gone?_ _Will the war end, and we return to what life was before?_

I can't even say what it _was_ like. There was another war, and one before that, and one before that. Neighbouring kingdoms, picked at and assailed by warplanes. Would soldiers know what to do without orders? Gareth's only been gone a few days. Will he come back and pick up where he left off, lecturing elderly customers and counting up the change wrong?

Maybe nothing will be the same after this.

The council, undecided on a new leader...would another kingdom look at us and see a grand opportunity to invade? Or are they lesser-scale dickheads, only bombing because we bombed them first?

I wonder how much of this is my fault, or if it's just the way it always was.

We round the next corner and I slide down a wall between crates of spoiled apples, panic roaring louder than everything else. I don't cry, and that's surprising. (My face finally ran dry.) My leg still throbs from the Mage's spell, and I prop it up on one of the crates, doing my best to ignore the pain. Baz kneels in front of me, concerned. (And bloody knackered, by the looks of it.)

“Simon,” he says and waits, because he's like that. He knows he doesn't need to push—eventually, any resolve I have will dissolve, and the words come pouring out.

Well, get ready, wizard. Here it is.

“I killed him. I didn't mean to, but...I couldn't catch him, could I? He fell through the star door and I couldn't reach him in time. I wasn't looking. Maybe if I'd been looking, I would've been able to help, but he was _hurting_ me, and-”

Baz slides down next to me, something solid I can lean into. “There was something very wrong with him. He'd consumed too much magic...there's a reason we're only given so much. Don't blame yourself, Simon.”

It does feel like my fault, though. If I'd been _watching_ when he slipped, I...

But he would have killed me. He _did_ kill Baz. (I think. I'm not sure. Was he in a between state, without his heart?)

“They're going to chase us. I killed the Mage _._ ”

“You didn't kill anyone, love. He was foolish and fell through a door.” He hesitates. “Besides. We don't know that he's dead.”

_Love?_

I still can't summon the three words I mean to. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. _I think the Mage is gone._ “The way it lit up...like it was satisfied.” ( _Full._ ) “I don't think he's anywhere, Baz.” And how could we find him, even if he _were_ still out there in the nothing?

“He would have killed _you,_ ” Baz says eventually, eyes not leaving mine. “He would have poured water over Calcifer and stolen my heart. He would have used my magic to bring havoc down on innocent heads across the border, and then he would have hunted down Shepard, Summer and your frightening friend Bunce, and seen that they were disappeared, too. He would have returned to the ruins of my home and torn down my father's workshop. He would have destroyed your bakery, and paid a visit to Shepard's family in the royal city. More than likely, in the dark of night.” He draws a breath, and I watch his necklace glint silver. “And then he would have found another wizard, another fringe sorcerer, more magic to covet. And it would have begun again.”

_Beginnings_ , I think. _First words bleed to last words._

“Well, you're feeling blisteringly honest tonight,” I mutter.

He holds up his hands. “Yes, and here are the blisters.” I have to smile. (He does too.) “Perhaps that's the heart's burden, Simon. Honesty.”

_And love._ But I don't think now's the time for that, when we're sitting in a nest of rotting apples, looking like we've just survived a mauling from a combine harvester.

I wipe as much muck from my face as I can and pull myself up the wall. Baz holds out a hand, and if he thinks he's getting his wand back that easily, he can bloody well think again.

“No magic. You need to rest.”

“And how do you suppose we'll get up the hill without one of your nosy neighbours seeing these scruffy wings?” He frowns, and I'm _so glad_ his face isn't blank that I grin. Which only makes him frown harder, but that's alright. “One spell for your wings. No more.”

“And my tail,” I add, swerving as it goes for the jugular.

He reaches out to touch it and lets it wind around its wrist. (The fucker's docile, all of a sudden. Barefaced favouritism.) “Let's not be hasty.”

I don't know what _that's_ supposed to mean, and I don't know if he can see how red I'm going, what with the general state of nighttime and grit on my cheeks. I pass him his wand and turn away.

_**“** **Out of sight, out of mind.”** _

I don't feel them go, but I watch the wings' shadow vanish from the wall.

When I turn around, he's already holding out his wand for me to confiscate. I tuck it up my sleeve and check him over for signs of impending doom—veins, lines, darkness. He seems to be intact.

“How did that feel?”

He touches his lip with his tongue, and I have to hold myself back from jumping him.

“Different. Clumsier, somehow...but it worked, did it not?”

He allows himself a small smile as I tuck my arm through his again.

“Well, you really put your heart into it this time.”

He scowls and it's beautiful, and I promise him that I'm always going to make him scowl like that. He calls me a resplendent threat and I call him a glittery hazard.

Then I lead him out of the city, into the wider night.

  
  


* * *

  
  


My head's still trapped in beginnings as we drag our sorry remains up the hill. I'm remembering the first time I met Penny—the first day we worked together, the first things I learnt about her. (She loves new things, she's curious, she's kind.) I see her standing by the gate, arms folded and consternation written across her face—glasses gather the moon's shine, and I think about what a good friend she is. How she waited for us, how part of her knew I'd come back like I promised.

_Penny._ She catches sight of us and runs along the dirt road, hair flying out behind her. Baz and I reach the crest of the hill, feet burning and clothes hanging off us in scorched rags, the night's pain plastered on our faces. My tail wraps itself around my waist, and I tuck it under my shirt as best I can, holding my arms out for her to fly into.

I realise far too late that this is not a hug.

_Born a daft egg, you were_ , _Simon Snow._ I know, Ebb. I know.

There's no time to dodge—she slips in the mud and barges into me with her shoulder. I crumple pathetically to the ground while she towers over me, mortally unimpressed. Like on the day she met Haz Jenkins in the yard and we told her a hundred lies, I've sorely misread the situation.

“Simon Snow!” she seethes, not wanting to be _too_ loud, lest she wake the entire hillside. She reaches for me and I cower, grabbing at her blouse before she goes tumbling over me down the hill. “What _do_ you think you're doing?” I open my mouth to answer, but she pushes a hand against my face to indicate what a bad idea that would be. “Why is there an offensively chatty man in the kitchen, taking measurements of the fireplace?” She looks Baz up and down, eyes narrowing with what is either suspicion or intense dislike. (Or both.) “And why are you out here in the dark with a morose budgie that's recently been squeezed through a mangle?” She squints at him, something beneath the soot shining through. “It's _you—_ the tailor!”

Baz groans. I watch as he goes through the trauma of summoning a witty comeback, only to surrender. “Can't we do this later? Is there a bath within your residence? We've brought half the countryside up the hill with us.”

“I'm not finished,” Penny snaps, shushing him with a look. “I would _also_ like to know why there is a dog _—_ who is now a _girl—_ sitting under the table, scratching behind her ear with a foot.”

There's a yapping sound from over her shoulder—we twist our necks in unison to see a blonde girl standing in the doorway, involuntarily barking back at us. She regains control of her face and waves a fist instead, marching over in a mirror of how Penny did. I step behind Baz, hands flat on his back, urging him forwards.

“Oh, my _hero,_ ” he drawls, trying to grab at me. “You bring me back from the dead only to sacrifice me at the altar of uncursed spaniels.”

“You're stronger than me,” I whisper. “Re-curse her, she'll never see it coming.”

“With my wand and post-bath, yes, I am stronger,” he mutters. “In my current state of distress and undress, utterly unarmed? I fear I am no match for Summer, with or without claws. Is our dear dragon really so afraid?”

The girl is almost upon us. Penny steps aside to assist her in a more direct approach.

“I don't know what you two are muttering about, but I'd drop it and prepare yourselves for a lecture. Simon, you should be used to that.”

I swallow. “Penny, is Summer upset with us?”

Baz gets a hand around my arm and pulls me to his side. _And so the brave dragon and his wizard face their fate together_.

“If you call her Summer, she'll rip your nose off. That's what she told the talkative one.”

“Shepard,” I say.

“What?” Penny shouts, spinning around. “Where? That's the _last_ thing I bloody well need tonight.”

“No, Pen—the bloke with the pencils. That's Shepard. I borrowed his clothes, remember?”

“Oh.” She sniffs, folding her arms. I _think_ , somewhere deep, deep down, she's happy to see me. (Or at least, mildly impressed that I'm still alive.) “Well, I do hope he isn't here on behalf of a consortium. You _know_ we don't affiliate with shepherds, Simon.”

Baz quirks a brow at me, but I dare not explain. The girl reaches us, looking like she'll tackle us to the ground. (She's definitely Summer.) She spares Penny a look before shaking her hair around and growling at us. (I think she's trying to shake her ears.) (And she actually _growls_. It's terrifying.)

“About time,” she barks, lunging to grip both of my arms. Summer didn't have opposable thumbs, which is an odd thing to focus on right now, but there it is—and she definitely didn't have long, straight, butter-blonde hair. (She did have lovely golden tufts of fur on her back. I wonder if—) “What took you so long? You had all the time in the world to break my curse, and you wasted time dithering over _teapots_ and _baths_ and _vampires_ , instead.” She yips, disguising it behind a cough. Penny takes a step away from us.

“Penny, it's not—”

“Oh, it's _exactly_ what you think,” not-Summer continues, accusing finger flicking from me to Baz. “Hopeless, both of them. All that magic and not an ounce of sense between them.”

She shakes her head. I've never felt more judged. Penny is awestruck as the wave of fury crashes down upon us.

“Do you both have sieves for brains? Can't you remember my curse's words?”

I scuff at a stone, avoiding her piercing gaze. She's got Summer's eyes and I expect her to roll them expertly, at any moment.

_“To wander until you find true love, or the fire below falls for the sun up above,”_ Baz recites, looking pensive. The girl repeats it in a sing-song way, as if she's sick of hearing it.

“So you fell in love and broke your own curse?” I ask, trying to imagine who the lucky person might be. Definitely not me, and surely not Baz. So...“Shepard?” (I mean, he's a good catch.) (Clever, friendly, makes a cracking cup of tea.)

Her eyes narrow, and Penny takes another step back, tutting at me. _Proper buggering this up, aren't I._ Next to me, Baz groans.

“No, not _Shepard_ , you twit. Weren't you listening? There were _two_ clauses to my curse. I'm a princess, so _obviously_ I'm supposed to stand atop the ramparts waving a handkerchief, waiting for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet...is _that_ what you think?”

It's not a question she actually wants answered, but I can't help myself. “If you want to. There aren't really any ramparts around here, but...”

Baz groans again. “You are entirely missing the point, Snow.”

I frown. She doesn't want to fall in love—is that the point? Because alright, fine, it reduces the odds of her ever having to perform impromptu heart surgery with a fallen star...and it's got nothing to do with whether she's a princess or not, just—

Oh. Well. I see, then. The missing point.

The missing princess.

“You're...” I start and then stop, because she's begun trotting in circles, trying to catch a ribbon trailing from the back of her dress. _Like a puppy chasing its tail,_ I think, then deliberately try _not_ to think, because it seems rude. “You're the princess.”

“Well spotted,” she snarls, looking at each of us in turn, daring us to comment. None of us do. “Agatha Wellbelove,” she says primly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. “Technically a princess, though if you call me _m'lady,_ I will end you. Also,” she wavers, tugging at her dress, “the tail. Do _not_ mention the tail.” Her eyes dart between me and Baz. I press my lips together and try to still my own wriggling tail, which has heard the summons and yearns to involve itself in the conversation.

“Princess,” Baz says, bowing gracefully.

“Agatha. And none of that nonsense,” she snaps, flapping a hand at him. “That's what got me into this mess.” She sighs, and it comes out sounding like a whine, so she stops. “The Mage invited my family to the palace to discuss a peace treaty between our kingdoms. My parents sent me, as heir, to negotiate on their behalf.” She licks her lips. “That was a delightful excursion, wasn't it? I believe my mother was hoping I'd meet a charming lord or duke, though I assured her the odds were low.”

Baz grits his teeth. “Yes. He was rather fond of his _treaties_. And I agree, the nobles in these parts are ghastly.”

I pout at him. “I can be noble sometimes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Astoundingly. However, you are not _a_ noble, Snow.”

“Well, alright. Just making sure.”

“Sorry, but...the Mage _was_ fond of treaties?” Penny asks, despairing of us. My eyes dart down to the ground again. “Was, not is?”

_It's going to be a long night._

“Horrid little man. He tricked me, of course,” Agatha continues, curling her lip. (She must have learnt that from Baz. I don't suppose there was much for her to do, as a dog. Might as well observe the master at work.) “Offered me a cup of tea and had one of his wizard friends curse me. My parents sent a sternly-worded letter requesting my safe return, and he denied having kidnapped me—next thing you know, war was declared.” She grips her elbows, biting her bottom lip.

“You're the hero,” I say slowly, realising it's true. _Also, you've nipped my ankle enough to leave scars._ “You got us out of the palace, Sum- _Agatha_. You fought off the Mage's men. You saved us.”

A clump of mud dislodges and she's distracted for a moment. (Penny has to grab her arm to stop her from chasing it down the hill.)

“Sorry,” she says vacantly, dusting off remnants of spaniel. “I'd rather not be anything, if it's all the same to you. A princess, waiting for _true love_...how predictable. Though waiting for you two to get your act together was no less torturous.”

_She's talking about us?_

_The fire below falls for the sun up above..._

_Oh._

_So...who fell first, then?_

My cheeks are blazing red. No way around it. Penny's shaking her head at the world, and I'm tempted to hide behind Baz again, though he's looking equally embarrassed.

“I'm the sun,” I mutter. “Obviously.”

“You most certainly are not,” Baz hisses. “You're the fire, dear dragon.”

It's a good job there are no flames left in my throat, because I'd be coughing them up indignantly. “You're the fire—you had a _talking fireplace_ , Baz. And you know loads of fire spells.”

“None of which surpasses you breathing _actual fire_ , Snow.”

I splutter as Penny and Agatha roll their eyes in unison, turning back towards the farm. (It's probably best we get off the road, in case the Mage's men _do_ gather for a midnight dragon hunt.) “I'm the sun. My sunny disposition, right?”

“Right. Hidden behind layers of curse-words and surly manners.”

“Fuck, Baz—I mean, _look_. You can't be the sun. It's not like—”

“—you revolve around me?” he smirks.

Well, he's got me there.

I splutter some more, though it does me no good, and we're soon on the shop's doorstep, watching as the door slams shut in our faces. (Thanks, Penny.) A moment passes and it's pulled open again—Agatha, looking royally confused.

“I...I'd like to visit the facilities,” she says in a small voice, looking along the road. "Shepard always opened the castle door for me..."

“The loo?” I say, because I'm the king of tact. “It's upstairs." I point over her shoulder. “Inside.”

There's a moment where _I_ realise, and _Baz_ realises—his grip on my arm tightens—and then _Agatha_ realises.

_Not a word. Not one fucking word._

“Well,” she says eventually. “I was cursed for a long time. It's natural to expect aftereffects. Weren't you drunk on Baz's magic for days, Simon? I needn't threaten you again, I'm sure.”

“No. That's fine. We get it. Right?”

Baz dips away from my nudging elbow, making it clear I'm in this alone. _You great thumping git._

Agatha slinks off upstairs, and there's no time to dwell on the sinister power she might hold as heir to a kingdom—Shepard's taking her place in the doorway, pulling Baz into a heartfelt hug. (Doubly heartfelt now, I suppose.) (Will Shepard notice the difference?)

He'll no doubt notice what's missing.

_A flame, a spark, a rapier wit._

I tug on Baz's sleeve, hoping he'll understand without me saying it.

_Calcifer. We have to tell him what happened._

_What I've done._

Baz pulls me inside, pushing his mouth to my ear. “Shepard knew what Calcifer was. He'll understand.” He steps back. (I hope he doesn't feel guilty.) “Our demon would not be pleased to see you unhappy. He'd call you all manner of unpleasant things.”

“I know,” I say, laughing weakly. “I know he would.”

_Third-rate dragon! Misshapen lizard! Grubby chameleon!_

“Simon!” Shepard says, teaspoon held aloft. “So glad you're safe. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, I'm dying for one.” I limp inside and let the door close behind us. The bell overhead jingles in a familiar way. _A past that never passes._

We step into the light and leave the night behind us.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Shepard's in the kitchen sweet-talking the teapot, doing a grand job of ignoring Penny as she fusses over him, desperate to manage the process.

“Haven't you ever made tea before? You brew it for five minutes, not five _years._ ”

“Sure, I've made plenty of tea! Would you like a cup? Baz likes his dark as ink.”

“Stop changing the subject. Where did you crawl out from, the coast?”

“No! I'm Shepard. I'm from the royal city of Om—”

“I don't care where you're from. It's a figure of speech.”

We take the tea into the shop and sit cross-legged on floorboards. Baz doesn't sit—he drains his tea in one long, steaming gulp, then excuses himself from the room.

“Do you have a bath in this hovel, Bunce?”

Penny adjusts her glasses and says, “Upstairs. Do _not_ use all of the hot water.” When he's gone, she glares at me. “He's not really a tailor, is he?”

“No,” I admit, avoiding her gaze. (I have to avoid Agatha's, too. Shepard's the only one I can look at with any confidence.) “He's...well. He's the wizard Pitch.”

I endure the bollocking of a lifetime, and I sit and take it because I deserve it, really. I've told a lot of lies and done a lot of things I thought I never would.

But if it saved Baz's life, it was worth it.

If it can help end a war, it was worth it.

Agatha sits perfectly still throughout Penny's tirade, occasionally licking the back of her hand. (She's tipped her cup of tea into her saucer, and I'm very deliberately not looking as she laps it up.) When Penny pauses for breath, she uses her natural princessly (princessish?) authority to interrupt.

“The wizard Pitch wasn't entirely terrible to live with,” she concedes, licking up the last of her tea, then setting the saucer down with a clink. “He doesn't do all that heart-eating, you know. After I escaped from the palace and fled the city, I found the castle and he took me in.”

“And he didn't make me leave, after I showed up and asked for an apprenticeship,” Shepard says. He pulls out his necklace and grins at me. “He sees the value in people. Still got yours, Simon?”

I thread fingers inside my shirt and pull out the grubby teapot charm. Penny looks at us, perplexed.

“So you joined some sort of magickal gang, bought matching necklaces, and kidnapped a princess? Honestly, Simon.”

Agatha coughs. (It sounds like it might become a howl, if she's not careful.) “The Mage kidnapped me. Simon was always rather good to me, actually.” She smiles faintly, and I return it. I always thought princes and princesses would be stuck-up and rude, but she's alright. A bit distant, but it seems like she doesn't much enjoy the princess stuff. She'd rather be apart from it all. (I can understand that.) “In the morning, could you please take me to the city? I'll make a scene in the main square. Someone's bound to recognise me. Then once I'm home, I can see about ending this foolish war.” She yawns, crawling under the counter and curling up on her side. “I have advisors. It's their job to listen to me—it's lovely.”

My eyes are growing heavy. Penny's still full of questions—fortunately, Shepard has enough enthusiasm and answers for everyone. She's given no choice but to believe what she's told—it's either that, or face another barrage of _fascinating facts about moving castles!_ from Shepard, who is one of life's natural storytellers. (If not interrogators.)

“I'll take you down the hill tomorrow,” she tells Agatha, defeated. “I've got a motorcar. It's no royal carriage, but it'll do. Just mind the cheesecakes on the back seat.” She yawns, reaching for me, almost putting a hand on my tail. “I'm glad you're here, Simon. Sorry if it hasn't seemed that way. Today was...long.”

I glance at Shepard, and he nods gently. I know she won't care about the dragon stuff. (My wings haven't reappeared yet, which is good, because she's close enough to risk a blinding.) But I'm the next best thing to dead, and can't face that conversation tonight. Shepard doesn't ask about Calcifer or the castle, and I'm grateful.

I can't. Not yet. Not...not now.

I shuffle back until I find the wall, resting my head on my knees, breathing in the familiar scents of the shop. (Dust, cheese, goat.) (Penny, too. And Shepard. And damp spaniel.) (Sorry, Agatha.) They continue to talk quietly, Shepard rising to replenish our tea. I'm vaguely aware that Baz hasn't come back downstairs, but that makes sense—he bathes not like ordinary men.

We sit and they talk and I listen.

All of this, so familiar and strange.

It's the sort of solace you find after the fight. Friends among strangers—and I keep one ear on the door, dreading the tramp of boots and twitch of cruel moustaches.

I'm slipping away into a shallow sort of sleep, catching snatches of chatter, bereft of context.

“He told me he wanted a war and I was a good enough excuse.”

_(Down...)_

“And you did _what_ to the soldier's nether regions?”

_(...down...)_

“It wasn't bad, I suppose. I'd never thought about how nice it could be to have your neck scratched.”

_(...it_ is _nice...)_

“I'll have to start my compendium from the beginning, but I don't mind. A lot of it's tucked away in my head, you know? It's going to be _fascinating_. Ninety-four chapters, and—”

_(...down...)_

“It doesn't surprise me that they were hopeless. One's all show, and the other thinks jam sandwiches make for an acceptable breakfast.”

_(...everybody likes jam sandwiches...)_

“Will you write us a letter when you're safely back in your country?”

“No.”

“I'll write to you, then. _Castle Wellbelove, Over the Border._ Will that be enough for the Post Office?”

“Trust me, the Post Office can track anyone down."

“If you write to me, Penny, I won't reply. I'd rather be left alone. In fact, I'd like to never see any of you ever again.”

“We'll see. I'll visit soon.”

_(...further down...)_

“...most curses are unimaginative. Honestly, if I never see or hear another spell again, I'll be happier for it. Droll poetry straight out of arcane spell books... _true love?_ How tedious. I knew I'd be wasting my whole life as a dog, if that were the sole condition...though watching those two try to communicate was like watching moths wade through treacle...”

_(...and..._

_...out.)_

I wake later, when the lamps are low and Agatha's snoring softly under the counter, curved around herself with her nose tucked under a hand. (I fight the temptation to pat her on the head.) Penny's shaking me softly, wrinkling her nose.

“Get up and have a bath, Simon. Then go to bed and check on your wizard.”

She says it in a way that suggests _I know a bit about what's happening there and though I don't disapprove, I do not wish to dissect it right now_. I take her hand, pins and needles shooting up my bad leg. “Where's Shepard?”

“I rather coldly suggested he could sleep in the hayloft above the barn, and he seemed all for it. I'm not sure he's ever met a goat before, but they haven't kicked up a fuss.” She nods towards the kitchen—I look through and see an old blanket by the back door. We keep a pile of them for the herd, in winter. “I'll take it out to him, then drive back down the hill. Do you think you'll be alright?”

She's concerned. I wonder how much she knows of what we're running from. ( _Are_ we running?) (Does sleeping count as running?) Not even Shepard knows what happened in the castle...only me and Baz, and he's presumably passed out somewhere upstairs, excluding himself from the discourse.

I worry I hear voices, but they might only be in my head.

“We'll be fine, Pen. Get some rest.” I squeeze her wrist. (My tail's unwinding, awake and ready to enact the first of its many small revenges.) “Thank you. For letting us stay.”

She smiles the way she does when I'm being silly. (It always reminds me of Ebb.) “Oh, Simon. This is your home.”

"Did she..." I clear my throat. "Penny, do you know if...or, did Ebb ever tell you—did she ever talk about magic?"

Penny purses her lips. "Magic? No. She wasn't interested in much beyond goats and cheese."

"Goats and cheese," I mutter. I let out an unsteady breath. "Yeah. You're right."

"Simon...are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm grand."

And I wonder about that as I climb the stairs.

I stand in front of my bedroom for a good five minutes, swaying with fatigue, conjuring the energy for one last opened door. I step inside, half-expecting to find Baz judging my sheets or sneering at goat books. (Or maybe stretched out on top of my ratty blankets, dead to the world.) (I wouldn't mind seeing that. Not the dead part, but the stretching...)

Baz isn't there.

My heart rate picks up until it's uncomfortable. _He's gone. He's lost._

I'm back in the castle, dragging him across the burning floor, eyes wide and staring at nothing.

I stumble from my room, hands trembling, summoning black veins and cruel spells instead of the dull reality of Ebb's shop. I'm there again—through the star door, having the life sucked from me. I trip, tail wrapping around the bathroom door handle, shoving me through to face the remains of the mirror I shattered, an age ago now.

My heart's in my throat. I taste nothing but fear. (It's red hot, but I'm not. I'm freezing.)

Then it dissipates as quickly as it came.

He's there, in the bath with his eyes closed, red in his cheeks from the heat of it. He's been soaking for hours—maybe since we first sat down to tea. He's got one hand draped over the edge, dripping on the bathmat, and his skin's wrinkly. I don't know when he got his wand back—I check my sleeves and of course it's gone—but he must've spelled the water, because there are more shimmery bubbles than anyone could reasonably require...and the water's clean, despite the soot that must have come off him. He shouldn't be casting like this—he needs to rest. Leave off the magic for a week, at least...there's been so much, and none of it good.

(Except that last spell with the heart.)

( _One last burst of fire. I know you can do it._ )

I stand in the doorway, waiting for the uncertainty to subside.

“Simon,” he says without opening his eyes, and I wonder distantly if he minds, bathing in ordinary water. No powder or potions or cedar. It's as plain as a bath can get. (Except for all those fucking bubbles, I mean.)

I'd make it magic, if I could...but I'm done. _Down and out and can't get up_. My fingers find the door handle, and I'm halfway out onto the landing when he speaks again.

“Aren't you coming in? I've been pickling myself, waiting for you.”

It's that same petulant tone he used when I stayed in his room, at the top of the spire. (Another ache as I remember. Is it only rubble now?) The sort of question I can't quite read. I look down at my matted, ripped clothes...the scratches and dried blood.

“I'm a mess.”

His eyes open, and I couldn't look elsewhere if I wanted to.

“I don't mind.”

_You should._

“I don't feel right.”

He sits up, water sloshing over the side. I go to him. (There's no other way.) (Was there ever?)

“Perhaps _that's_ the heart's burden, Simon,” he says, bringing me to the water's edge. “If we're still seeking it.”

“What's that—guilt?”

“No,” a whisper, hands on my back. His blisters are gone. “Worry.”

_Live with it or let go of it._ That's what Ebb would say.

Agatha, safe under the counter. Penny, berating Shepard in the barn. (That's what I assume is happening. The herd's yelling up a storm—they're like the world's worst backing singers.)

Baz, warm in the bath.

_And what about me? Where am I?_

“Right here, Simon,” he says, splashing me. “We're right here.”

I kick off my boots and place them out on the landing.

And by the time the water turns cold, I'm absolutely _sure_ there is not one single scale left on my arse.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Later, when both of us are clean and neither of us can sleep.

We're lying in my bed, Baz cramped against the wall and me on my stomach, to accommodate my recently-returned wings. (They popped out as I was climbing out of the bath. Nearly sliced his ear off.)

I gave him some of my old clothes to sleep in—we'll have to throw his lavender shirt away. (He's convinced I'm working towards the gradual destruction of his wardrobe.) (There's nothing gradual about it, in my opinion. I stole his fire demon and caused his entire castle to collapse, in one ruinous act.) The trousers are too short on him—when I pointed it out, he called me a frumpy menace and I called him a miserable prune. (I'm no match for him verbally.)

Now we're lying here, soapy and sore, my head laden with words that want a way out.

_Three words. The ones you've held back all day._

My mouth's dry. I find my voice, a whisper in the dark.

“Baz.”

(Because I'm reckless.)

“You don't have to say anything."

(Because it's late.)

"I just need you to know.”

(Because we're _here_.)

“I love you.”

Quiet. Outside in the hills, a crow caws.

After time, a restless breath.

“Simon.” _(Yes?)_ “When I was younger, at the lake...I saw you without understanding what I was seeing. Knowing that there was somebody out there waiting...willing to help me.” Another breath, half a laugh. “In truth, it kept me going on days I couldn't. And there were many days like that. The memory of you...it was like a pull, something in me I couldn't deny.” He gives the other half of the laugh. “And then I find you in that alleyway rolling up your sleeves to punch a soldier, and I think to myself, _really? Is this what I've spent years searching for, placing my hope in?”_

I snort with laughter— _deep_ laughter—rising up from the core of me. I don't know when I last laughed like this. (I'm definitely going to wake Agatha up.) When I've calmed down I say, “They were a right pair of pricks, weren't they?”

Baz shakes silently next to me, and we move onto our sides. We lie nose-to-nose, breathing the last of our laughter against each other, my eyes drooping and heart weightless.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I've loved you for years without knowing you.”

It's something I can't put words to.

Life could just be this, and I'd be fine with it. I'd be satisfied, at last.

It's right that he found me. Heard me.

And when he asks, “Will you stay?” I don't hesitate.

“Yeah. That alright?”

A smile, a smirk, my tongue flicking under his front teeth.

“Yes. That's alright.”

“Good, that's good,” I mumble, as he rolls onto his back.

I go with him. I'll go anywhere with him. _Anything I like, anywhere I'd rather be._

Kiss him 'til the past has passed, 'til I'm drunk with it and can't recall my own name.

Kiss him like it's the last time, the first time, the only time that matters.

Kiss him 'til his magic's mine and the spells fall out of his head.

Kiss him in the dark of night and all the mornings to follow.

“Baz,” I say.

“Simon,” he says.

And the day's still hours away.

Through the window, silver light shines bright, as if a star hangs right over the room. I feel Baz grinning under me and I pull back, letting him sit up.

“He certainly took his time.”

I frown and Baz's grin slips to a knowing smirk.

“What...?”

“Go and see.”

I squint through silver, pushing back blankets and hobbling to the small window. (I think the limp might be sticking around like my tail and wings, a morbid souvenir of our night of stolen magic.)

“Don't look directly at him, Snow. He doesn't deserve the attention, after making us wait this long.”

More frowning and confusion. Baz joins me by the window, fingers working at the latch and forcing it open. I breathe in cold air, listening for strange sounds from the barn—I didn't hear Penny leave, but the goats have settled. (Is she sleeping in the hayloft, too?) (I wonder if Shepard talks in his sleep. It's a good way for him to get a few more words in.)

I feel a passing heat on my face—then whatever's waiting outside is _inside_ , in my room.

“Fancied making a dramatic entrance, did you?”

_“You're one to talk.”_

I open my eyes, flashes making squares dance in my vision. Baz is smiling, casting to reduce the glow. (He hid his wand under the pillows, in case the Mage's men came sneaking up the stairs for a fight.)

“I missed you, my iridescent incubus.”

_“Same to you, dear cankerous pore.”_

_Fucking nasty, these two._

_But wait, does that mean_ —

Calcifer is floating in the middle of the room—same staring eyes, like holes in the bright. Same scrap of a taunting tongue.

“You're alive,” I gasp, disbelieving.

_“In my own way,”_ he crackles. _“Were you worried, kid?”_

_Not a fire, but a spark._

“You're a star.”

_“I'm what I was. What I can be again—thanks to you, Simon.”_

His voice is different—lighter, like the oak's not weighing him down anymore. (And Baz's heart. Was it a burden or an anchor?)

“I killed you,” I say, like anyone in the room could forget.

_“Do I look dead to you, kid?”_ (Not really.) (Are demons ever alive?) _“When you pushed your magic into Basil, I felt it, too. You didn't kill me_ — _quite the opposite. You kept your promise.”_

And for the first time since reaching the farm, I feel hope. (And wide awake.) (Calcifer's bright as fuck, I'll be seeing him on the inside of my eyelids for weeks.)

“What will you do now, old friend?” Baz asks, trailing fingers through the star's wake. “I'm afraid there's no fireplace up here for you to sulk in.”

_“I like it in the sky,”_ he burns, turning to me. _“I'd forgotten what it was, to fly.”_

There's a lump in my throat. Calcifer moves to the window, illuminating the yard and the quiet hills beyond.

“Stay above the farm,” Baz says. “Try to avoid making a spectacle of yourself. We're supposed to be in hiding.”

The star drifts from the room, turning to wink at us.

_“They won't bother you tonight. And if they do come knocking, I'll see them from miles off. Wait for me in the morning, Basil?”_

“How could we possibly overlook you?” Baz asks, grimacing. “You're frightfully flamboyant.”

Calcifer cackles, moving out into the night. He's beautiful. (In a menacing way. But I suppose just as Agatha struggled to forget her spaniel-mannerisms, it's hard for a star to shed its fiery habits.)

_“Where's the apprentice? I want to give him a fright.”_

I point to the barn, wondering what new hell I've unleashed on Penny. Calcifer will have to let her cook breakfast on him in the morning, to make up for the impending midnight terror. I step back from the window, breath misting, half-watching Baz as he slides back into my cramped, musty bed.

“I didn't kill him,” I say in amazement. Bit by bit, the hole in me draws closed. “Calcifer's alive.”

Baz pats the mattress and pulls the blankets up to his chin. “Of course you didn't kill him. I imagine he lurks alongside vampires, in terms of dark creatures it's difficult to ever truly be rid of. Stars are persistent, Simon.”

“Yes,” I say, settling into the warmth. “They leave trails.”

_And echoes._

I put my head on his chest and let the life in him comfort me.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Days later, time bleeding to a blur.

I don't know where the hours go. Does anyone? Is time a thing to be understood? I questioned it when I was flying once, and never did find a fair answer.

“Simon! Stop daydreaming about bacon and help me move this, will you?”

It's Penny, one foot in the doorway to the shop, trying to drag a sack of wheat flour across the threshold.

“Shit, sorry.”

It's only fair that I do the heavy lifting. The flour's for me, after all.

I step from one world to the next. (Or that's what it feels like.)

Baz and I stayed in my room for days, resting. Calcifer came through my window each night, recalling lurid details of his time spent hassling goats, retelling with increasingly unlikely detail what happened when he went through the barn window and startled Shepard and Penny. ( _Shepard and Penny_. That's a thing said in tandem now. They're always together.) Shepard brought us tea, Penny stuffed us with cake, and we slept until the bruises faded and we were sure soldiers weren't coming for us.

After a week or so, when we began to look more human than ghoulish, Penny drove us south-east in her motorcar. Calcifer flew overhead, tricking passers-by into thinking he was an errant firework.

Penny was well-prepared for harbouring unusual passengers—the morning after our arrival, she took Agatha into the city as promised. Shepard made notes, and if his pencil marks are to be believed, then all it took was a single toss of buttery hair, and the missing princess was recognised. (Much to Agatha's dismay. Shepard says she went on a rant about the emptiness of fairy tales that he could write a whole book about.) Penny promised to send letters, Agatha refused to respond, and then she was whisked across the border in a royal carriage to begin her peace-making attempts. (Before she left, she told me she'd learnt a few things from Summer. If her advisors refused to listen, she planned to bestow a few _biting remarks_.)

The Mage's men didn't march on the farm with torches. Not the first night, nor the second. Penny said when she went into the city to open the bakery, she saw soldiers in the square wearing green. (None had moustaches.) (I tried to make a joke about _a close shave_ but she said it wasn't funny.)

We left the farm in better spirits, though it took us ages to find the right valley. We kept driving until we almost hit the border, and ended up in a pretty town by the river. Baz recognised it immediately—said it was where his father lived with his family. I kept my eyes peeled for mini-Basiltons and a house with gargoyles hanging off it, but sadly I didn't see anything likely. We drove around the edges of the town, looking for soldiers—then Baz spotted a familiar dirt road leading into the hills, and we were in the ruins by dark.

We sat with our backs against car wheels while Baz told Penny about his mum.

She didn't say much—just took his hand and told him he was braver than he believed. They get on better than I could have hoped, really—though it does verge on unfairness when they gang up and batter me with their combined wit. The morning we left the farm, Baz insisted on magicking my borrowed clothes into something less brown—Penny said she didn't blame him for not wanting to dress like a muddy culvert. She might be getting her new-found passion for insults from Calcifer—during the day he hangs about the farm, because he enjoys watching the cheese stuff. Then he comes to us in the night, hanging in the sky like a bad omen.

Baz gets tired a lot, but proper sleep does come to him. His magic is stable again, and I think it's stronger than before—after a few nights curled together in the workshop, he opened a door to the farm. (Penny got the fright of her life when I strolled through.) (She almost beat me to death with a whisk.)

“Right. There's another two sacks where that came from. Are you actually going to do this much baking, Simon? You could start your own bakery, if you get good at it. That'd be nice, don't you think?”

I know what she means by that. _Ebb would want this for you. You're more than cheese, Simon._

I don't know how much baking I'll do, but I want to try. I'm into new things lately, looking for ways to occupy myself. Stay busy, keep my mind in the now.

It's hard, keeping the dark thoughts away. Sometimes they sneak through. I try not to dwell for too long on the palace fire and the crumbling castle, because it does no good. What can I change about the past?

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Shepard appears, snapping my thoughts back to the present, heaving the second sack up onto his shoulder.

Shepard's staying in my room at the farm. Calcifer hangs out in the fireplace and resolutely denies that he misses being cooked upon. (He isn't fooling anyone.) (Once, I went through to borrow a spatula and he was loitering in the grate, trying to nibble on a stick of wood.) I don't really know how Penny feels about having them both around constantly, but she hasn't chased them through the yard with a shovel yet, so it must be going well. I think she likes Shepard more than she lets on. (She's stopped objecting to his relentless reasonableness.) (I told her he'd wear her down, and I was right.)

I'm doing alright, too. Mostly. Sometimes I wake in the night with a throat full of smoke and a head of fire, but it's only ever a dream. (I don't _think_ I could breathe fire again. I haven't felt the same kind of anger since the castle.) (I've still got a limp. Baz calls me his hobbled dragon, which he finds hilarious.)

Sometimes I dream about nothing...the kind of nothing that makes your stomach roil and hope seem far away. But I wake up and Baz is there, and we talk. We talk when I need to, when he needs to. It doesn't always help...but it's better than locking it inside, behind our mind's own star door.

Baz says maybe that's the heart's burden, too—bad things happening, and having to live with them. Carrying on, in spite of all that makes you want to stop.

It's not a burden I have to face alone. He halves it, every morning I wake up and see he's still there.

_(I'm right here. He's right there.)_

I thank Penny for the flour and move the sacks into the tiny space we've repurposed as a kitchen. She's right—I'll have to do a fuck load of baking. But I have time to try, and I'm willing to eat any disaster cakes baked along the way. I'm allowed to take leftover cheese the shop doesn't sell, too, though Baz says if he has to look one more goat's cheese sandwich in the eye, he's going to turn himself into a dark wizard. (He'd bloody _love_ embracing that aesthetic.) (Just imagine the _capes_.)

“Simon, Calcifer says he'll take another log of pine, if you get chance later?”

“Sure, but he doesn't need wood anymore—he's being greedy,” I tell Shepard, rolling my shoulders. Log-splitting...my tail's proper into it, like a nightmare axe. Calcifer doesn't expend much of his nighttime energy indoors—he much prefers the starry sky, and I don't blame him—but he pops in occasionally. Says it feels like old times. (Baz installed a small fireplace in the workshop, so he can at least make himself useful.) “I'll bring it through later.”

Shepard dips back through the farm door. There's no dial above it—it's the only portal—and we leave it open, unless the farmhands are about.

“Oh!” Penny says, poking her head through. “We got a letter from Gareth this morning, handwriting as atrocious as you can imagine. He says he's on his way back to the valley and wants to know if he still has a job.”

I'm wrestling with my tail, trying to pry a wooden spoon from its grip. Penny took the wing and tail situation remarkably well—she sometimes asks to use the tail as a tin opener, which it's strangely obliging about. (I reckon it's hoarding these small favours in its malevolent memory, ready to call them in when I'm least expecting it.) “Depends. He's definitely not coming through here.”

Baz's valley is a solace. (That's how I think of it, as Baz's, though he insists it's ours.) I'm selfish enough to want as few faces here as possible—just us, Penny, Shepard, and an unruly star.

“He could stay in the barn,” she suggests. “Be in charge of the goat stuff, now you're living here.”

I smile at that. _I am. I am living._ “Sounds good. Make him shave that fucking moustache off, though.”

“Will do. And find Baz, won't you? Tea's nearly ready. Apparently Calcifer has a _very_ amusing story about Mrs Weatherly to share with him.”

I roll my eyes. (I'm getting good at it.) “Any word from Agatha?”

“No,” Penny says, looking determined. “I'm thinking about dropping in one day—you know, now that the borders are open again. She can hardly ignore me if I visit her at her own palace.”

_The thing about Summer is that she's very good at running away._ _She had a good teacher.  
_

I tell Penny we'll be in for tea soon, then cross the room where a workbench still stands, blueprints and diagrams spread out across its surface. Myriad maps and scrolls are scattered, held open with empty mugs and scattered pencils in every shade of blue.

On the doorstep, I look out at the lake...and for a moment, my head's full of star-shine.

Then I see him in the ruins—wand out, magic rippling in the air.

We went looking for the old castle, once. In the hills. Calcifer was sure he knew where he'd left it, but all we found were scorch marks and dead grass. Nothing remained—treasures, gargoyles, books, the drawbridge. Everything was gone. I wondered if the Mage's men had done a thorough job of dismantling it, but Baz thinks it was the humdrum. Sucked the castle's bones up into nothing.

_**“** **Everything in its place!”** _

I wait behind him, wings drifting in the wind, poked full of holes. (I plan to patch them up one day, if I still know how to sew. But it's not like there's anywhere I'd rather be.) (We haven't spelled them off since that night in the city. Baz says he likes it better, when I'm all of me.)

A section of toppled pillar rises from the ruins, dirt and grass dripping as Baz moves it onto patchwork stone flooring, where his masterwork awaits. The pillar lowers into place, and he casts an adhesion spell to secure it to the stone.

It's not much. It doesn't resemble anything we knew.

But it's a start.

My tail prods him in the leg and he turns, smiling wide when he sees me. He's got silver in the ends of his hair.

“Simon,” he says, an arm gliding around my shoulders. “What do you think?”

_I think you look like starlight. It's beautiful._

Baz has more magic, now that he doesn't have to pour it into the humdrum. At first he complained that he didn't know what to do with it—he eventually tired of spelling new clothes for himself, and I refuse to let him magickally enhance my baguettes—but once we found the blueprints in his dad's workshop, he discovered a new focus. Shepard's been a big help—he practically has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the place, screw by rusted screw. (There's a compendium idea for you, apprentice— _Magickal castles and how they move_.)

“It looks great. That's where the fireplace was, right? And the counter behind it. The stairs started...here? And what was there?”

“The store room,” he says, eyes shining. “Where Shepard kept the money. He has provided me with extensive notes regarding layouts and dimensions of different cabinets and drawers.”

Baz is rebuilding the castle. Or I guess he's building a _new_ castle—I've been pestering him about adding wings this time, and I think I've got him halfway convinced. He likes the idea of a castle in the sky—and he _did_ say he'd build me one, back when he was Haz and I was still trying to convince myself I wasn't a dragon.

“It's so good,” I tell him, and I mean it.

It won't be exactly the same. We'll have to start collecting things—books, gemstones, ornaments. Things we can tuck away and make magic out of, on long nights.

When it's finished we're going to cross the border...see what we find in the next land, and the one after that. (I've expressed mild concern about bumping into Baz's aunt, who sounds like a bit of a nutter, though he's told me not to worry.) We'll keep a door to the farm inside, so we can visit the others whenever we like. He said we could stay here, if I wanted—try to find out who my mum was, where my magic came from. See if Ebb really was a wizard, back in the day. I thought about what she would say: _Save all those pesky answers for another time, Simon. Take yerself out and away, while you can. Live. There's more to life than what's in yer head.  
_

_I will, Ebb. I'll live. We'll run far and further._

I asked Baz if he was going to make a new star door—we found his mother's plans—but he doesn't know if it's a good idea. He doesn't feel a drain in magic, like he used to. He thinks the Mage put back everything he stole and more, when he fell through.

I still don't like to think about him. About fire, castle walls collapsing, hands out of reach. I asked Calcifer for his opinion on what the heart's burden might be, and he took his time answering—“ _I don't have one, how would I know?”_ —but in the end, he managed to cough up something surprisingly thoughtful.

_“Remembering, kid. That's the burden. You can't run far enough when it's in your own head.”_

The war is over. (Officially—the Post Office sent out apologetic letters, and Penny says there are posters covering the city.) (Baz burnt her letter.) Soldiers are returning home, and by all accounts, the kingdom's council is arguing over who leads next. Word is they might turn to the citizens for their input.

Everything's changing, and warplanes fly no more.

Trouble might still come for us...spurned soldiers, treason, revenge. But we hope to be far, far away when it does. (How _is_ the Wraith doing? Has he turned Saltnook into a scenic vampire retreat?) Baz decided not to renew his wizarding registration when the palace reopens—his aliases are staying far-gone—and the hope is that the registry will believe Basilton Pitch to be dead, crushed by his castle. We saw outlines in the hills once—soldiers or ghosts, we couldn't tell—but they didn't come down into our valley. Eventually, the fear grew small and faint.

I know now—for every inch of darkness, there's a spark. For every thought I trap myself in, there's a moment like this to balance it—Baz, smiling as a memory takes shape. Goats in the field. Bread in the oven. Penny through the doorway, nagging Shepard about cutting the cheese too generously. _If they pay for a sliver they get a sliver, not a slice!_

I exhale, and some of the tension leaves me. I lean in to Baz, his grip gentle on my shoulders, and slip an arm around his waist.

“I thought we'd find the coast first,” he says quietly, lips pressed against my forehead. (He likes to kiss me there.) (I like to kiss him everywhere.) My tail wraps around his wrist, and he lets it. (Like us, it has its whims.) “You liked the sea, didn't you?”

“I did,” I say, remembering the smell of salt, the sound of waves.

And I start laughing, like that night in my old bedroom. Soon I'm doubled over, clutching my sides, Baz so confused he starts laughing, too. It's that loud, showy laughter from the bakery rooftop—something I could hear all my life and never grow tired of. We end up in the grass on our backs, looking at the sky, laughing and crying and not thinking about anything.

Well, I do have _one_ thought, I suppose. And for once, it's not about flames and endings.

It's about a beginning.

_“Aren't you coming?”_ Calcifer calls from the workshop. _“Come on, you lecherous lout. I've got a splendid story for you.”_

“Quiet down, you impudent speck of space dust.” Baz twists his neck to look at me. “Forget all else I've said, Simon. _There's_ the heart's burden, clogging up the chimney.”

I reach for his hand, turning to watch as he smiles, not half as annoyed as he pretends to be. His eyes are closed, sun bright on his face, and there's more life in him since we came here—he looks a lot like his mum. I fixed the chain on his teapot necklace, and it's as if he's who he's meant to be. I rub skin where rings and gems used to weigh him down. He doesn't wear much jewellery besides his necklace, and the occasional brooch shaped like a peacock's tail. (Always has been a flash git.)

And I wonder how far we'll wander, when the castle finds its feet.

I watch a butterfly perch on Baz's knee before taking off. It's like a memory, written over and remade. I sink into the grass and think about how beautiful it is to be here, to be nowhere.

Baz moves so he's hanging over me, dark hair a shadow across the sun, and I know what's coming. The sweetness of kisses, laziness of a day. I lift my hand and place it over his heart.

It beats.

_Steady. Sure. Safe._

It doesn't end where I thought it would, and I'm glad for it.

It ends imperfectly, with worry and laughter and no idea of what comes next.

With a boy in my arms and a star in the fireplace.

With friends, and a hundred fair questions yet unanswered.

With a castle rising from ruin, and a love I could never predict.

It _doesn't_ end in flames or darkness.

I run my hands through silver as a thumb passes under my eye. I reach up for a kiss, and he gives it to me.

_This,_ I think. _This is where the road goes._ _This is the magic._

And after everything,

it ends at the beginning.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Three Acts of a Wizard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256959) by [Caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug)




End file.
